One Eighty By Summer
by Kaylin Tesla
Summary: A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.
1. A Practical Exchange

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend a week in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 1 _A Practical Exchange_

January 15, 2012.

Operational Safe House 1185, or _Igor_, was thought to be a myth.

Legend among Rais and his followers purposed an outwardly decrepit building placed in the heart of the vast forest life south of Trubchevsk, Russia. It was supposed to be secluded from wayward eyes, hidden under the impression of an old government restricted military base that had been abandoned during the second world war. Vegetation masked a barbed fence fended against curious people, and the prospect of being found by those who wanted to end the nightmares Rais created. Transportation in and out was a thin path only traversable on foot, should the operative have detailed coordinates and knowledge to find it. Traps were rumored to litter the way for any who were not given prior permission, and therefore warning. Outward appearances suggested nothing more than a restricted area too hazardous for others to occupy.

Beneath the surface contradicted that.

Several key aspects of Rais and his organization were rumored to be located in a bunker beneath the land. Tunnels stretching for nearly a mile in every direction, some leading to dead ends while others led to secured outposts stationed in various small buildings scattered across the nearest towns and cities. Rooms sealed with mechanical and classic locks lining bricked walls, and guarded by disposable men armed to the teeth. Their only job was to keep the records pertaining to multiple operatives locked in vaults behind the sealed doors safe. No matter the cost.

And then there was the supposed screams. Torture victims, people who had information Rais wanted, were supposedly kept on one section of the tunnels. Locked in cells only large enough for a single person to curl into themselves on the frigid floor, pitch black with the agonizing sent of decay leaking through every inch of rough brick and mortar surrounding them. None lasted very long in such conditions. But the screams, even if all prisoners were confirmed to be silent, were allegedly the unfortunate souls still lingering about.

In essence, it was another piece of hell. And Nina Surkov was headed straight for it.

Surkov had never been superstitious. She knew the differences between reality and myth. Ghost and demons of legends passed from years of paranoia and culture were just that. Legends, fairy tales, imaginations drawn askew by stories deluded with age. All of which had to be taken with some formation of skepticism.

However, she was proven that it wasn't a myth when she tried to disband herself from Rais and his organization. That didn't end well in her favor.

She couldn't quite recall how she came to be bound in the back of a vehicle traveling a rather unpleasantly rugged trail in the dead of night. How long it had been since she was in the Raduzhny safe house with the kind hostess who had been tending her wounds for the past two weeks. Why she was too exhausted to scream or resist the painfully tight wire cutting into her wrists and ankles, securing her to a metal hook on the bed of a covered truck, close enough to brush rust against her bare nose with every pot hole and tangle her long, recently dyed brunette, hair. Or where she was being taken exactly and by whom. But she had the nagging suspicion as to why someone would have done something like that.

Disobeying a direct order from Rais was the worst mistake anyone working in the group could ever do. He wasn't lenient, not even towards his own protégé, and the severity of punishment was often seen as overkill for the crime itself. Considering the mess she created in Alaska with the US FBI and CIA, who were still trying to locate her using what she was forced to leave behind, she knew Rais was not going to show her any leniency. Despite the fact that he had raised her as his own daughter for the past sixteen years. She had betrayed him by disobeying his order to bring Mick Rawson with her to Russia.

Now she had to be punished.

The throb in her skull and right shoulder gave insight into a tangible injury, but she couldn't remember how she obtained such a thing. The last thing she did recall was leaving the safe house to pack her stolen car with luggage. She had been in the driveway, near the open trunk with a bag in hand. Then nothing. Everything afterwards was a blank, as if she had just imagined it. But that couldn't be right because she was sore. She couldn't find any adrenaline to wake herself from the stupor that muddled her senses, and that sent the horrible realization that she may have been suffering from something other than a physical injury. Poison, drugs, something that would have explained why she couldn't move despite the panic that was coiling in her stomach.

A paralyzing drug administered by whatever had pierced her shoulder. Bullets were an option, but she would have heard it. She did hold the best reputation among the other assassins for her skills with firearms, sniper rifles in particular, so she had been careful to clear the area for any threats laying in wait. Bullets left a sound when they sliced through the air, most inexperienced wouldn't have noticed such a mundane thing, and the lack of that noise suggested something else.

Or she simply didn't remember it.

Time spent on the frigid truck bed, curled forward into an uncomfortable position she couldn't stray from, seemed to pass in a haze. The roar of a distant engine, old and clearly not accustomed to the winter weather of Russia, rattled beneath her. She could feel it rumbling through her layers of clothing, jostling her face closer to the hook and enhancing the pain in her shoulder. When opening her eyes and screaming didn't work due to the blindfold and gag stuffed between her teeth, she fixated on anything else that would have told where she was being taken.

Cigarette smoke was subdued by the smell of motor grease and wet vegetation. No other vehicles were heard but the driver did brake a few times, possibly to avoid hitting an animal. He stayed on one straight course, never once turning a corner, as far as she could tell. The interior was scattered with cases of some kind that were tied with rope against the sides. Surkov could hear them shift occasionally. If she had use of her hands or even feet, she could have had a fighting chance.

But whoever had bound her knew that.

Surkov exhaled through her nose shakily, trying to calm the panic hammering her heart against her chest. Panic often led to adrenaline, which could have been her saving grace. The binds were painful against her skin, causing her to shiver at the lack of cloth once encompassing her hands and ankles. Her attacker must have known she hid weapons on her person at all times. Meaning her knives in her boots, belt, hair, and sown into her pant legs were probably gone.

Realizing that she was virtually powerless terrified her. But she accepted it with as much rational thought as possible. Rational responses were going to help her in this instance. So she ceased trying to shove the gag out of her move with her tongue and just breathed.

In and out. Focus on the nuisances. Her captor was going to stop the truck eventually. All she had to do was wait until that time came, and hope that the drug contaminating her brain dissipated enough for her to react accordingly.

She wasn't going to willingly confront Rais. Not after her epiphany that Rais wasn't the man she had always perceived him to be. Her husband was dead because of him. Sava, her protégé and adopted family, was in a prison at the hands of the US CIA. Everything she had built in Alaska, her life, was gone. All because of Rais. He may have raised her as his own daughter, but she wasn't foolish enough to believe that meant anything.

Mick Rawson hadn't been wrong. She really was just another pawn. And she was finished playing his perverse version of the game.

* * *

Forty seven minutes. Almost twenty miles. Two right turns onto a more secluded and rocky stretch of road. Then the truck ceased moving entirely.

Nina Surkov tensed in fearful anticipation at the sudden stillness. The once rhythmic stutter of the engine fell away in anxious silence. Every brush of biting winter winds against the exterior mingled with the whining trees surrounding the truck. She strained her ears to listen, holding her breath and pressing herself close to the metal truck bed until she could hear her own blood pulsing in her skull.

She knew what was going to happen next. It wasn't her first time at a drop off. Of course, in all previous occasions she had been the deliverer. The person responsible for handing _targets_ to Rais's other operatives for execution at his own hand. So she knew how this was going to end. And she had to do something before her captor slung her over his shoulder and headed towards the rendezvous point.

Mobility was a slow return. It started with a twitch of her fingers on her left hand and moved towards her legs. She centered on flexing the digits, feeling them struggle just to meet her palm. The scuffle of her foot came next, and she almost cried out in relief when she felt the limb shift a few inches against the metal flooring. Her head remained thick with the drug impairing her usual attentiveness, but she was able to move enough to catch the edge of her blindfold along the hook securing her to the truck bed with the wire encompassing her limbs. Once the blindfold slid away from her eyes, she darted her eyes to every viable object shown by the glimpse of moonlight that fell through a large crack in the roof.

Boxes and crates, some secured and others not because they appeared to be extremely weighted by the contents, even several suitcases, remained just out of reach. The nearest crate caught her attention more than the rest. Or rather, the metal tips of multiple wood carved arrows peeking through the holes at the bottom. One in particular was caked in dried blood from the shaft to the tip, and while she couldn't see the end, she had the feeling that it had been snapped off to remove it from his victim safely.

Everything seemed to make sense after seeing that.

She was the victim. That had to be her blood. Meaning the pain in her shoulder and the temporary paralysis came from the arrow piercing her skin. It also explained why she couldn't remember the events pertaining to how she got in this situation. The arrow was laced with the drug. She didn't remember hearing the crack of bullet because there was none. Her captor was a fellow assassin. Although she doubted he was anything close to the typical assassin employed by Rais, she hoped she could use that to her own advantage.

The truck bounced slightly, so sudden that Surkov almost didn't feel it. He was leaving the driver seat and Surkov felt her heart skip a beat at the renewed urgency. She drew a deep breath and willed her limbs to move. One foot and a hand obeyed, the same she had regained some control of, and tugged at the wire embedding itself into her wrists and ankles. She bit the gag in her mouth harder to ignore the pain. Then continued to inch them closer to the nearest crate. It was futile, really, because there was no possible way for her to gain any traction to pull the crate towards herself. She still tried though.

Boots crunching against snow and ice and soft wooden twigs drew her actions to become more desperate. He was approaching fast, heavy footsteps in the ground that rang through the otherwise silent night like a bell in an empty room. One second turned into two. Footsteps were less than two more seconds from reaching the truck bed entrance near her feet and she had yet to even get within a foot of the crate.

The seconds faded before Surkov could breath. She stilled as soon as she heard the latch on the outside of the door, the frozen metal creaking in protest as the man pulled the barrier open with an echoing snap. Pressing herself into the floor as much as possible, she flinched at the obtrusive light of his torch that flickered over her. Something about the light worsened her headache. Probably due to the fact that the drug was dissipating from her system and one side effect was severe sensitivity to light.

"Good, you're awake." He stated almost excitedly.

Surkov felt her brow furrow at his accent. It was strangely familiar to the Welsh-English she had heard from Mick Rawson weeks before. Not quite the same because the assassin's held more slang to his tone. But as far as she knew, Rais didn't have any other assassins from Wales. Unless that was just another lie too.

He removed the light momentarily to place something metal and heavy above the roof. Then stuck the torch between his teeth and reached towards the metal hook in front of her face. She squinted and bucked away from him, trying to use her working foot to kick him to a distance. But he ordered something too muddled by the flashlight between his teeth and blinded her with it again. Surkov flinched once more and in those few seconds, she felt the wire holding her to the hook loosen slightly.

"See, better now, eh darling? Come on, let's get you out of here before someone starts noticing something's wrong."

She wanted to question what the hell he was talking about. Why any of this was happening because his actions had just contradicted everything she thought to be true about him. Any half decent assassin would have known not to show leniency. Not to let give their prey any leverage to be used for escape. So why was he dragging her from the truck and perching her on the edge of the rear fender? Instead of receiving an immediate answer she was forced to wait and obey.

"Name's Lucas Kyne, by the way." He stated as he dug in one of his many coat pockets and retrieved a pair of wire cutters.

Kyne was an old English surname, so he was either using an alias or he truly was from a more classical section of Britain. He was taller than her by only a few inches and certainly older, mid to late thirties if she had to guess. Broad muscles against a fairly thick frame barely shivered under the layers of dark winter clothing, which suggested that he was more than capable of defending himself with not only the arrows she saw in the crate. His features were masked by a thick wool scarf but his eyes were vaguely familiar. Brown, not hazel or the standard toned, but chocolate and dense with age and mystery. Short brunette hair peeked through the front edges of his cap against his forehead, masking the traces of a long and somewhat fading scar that ran from the top of his hairline on the right and disappeared along the opposite side.

What truly surprised her was the missing finger on his right hand. The dip in his black glove, where his middle finger should have been, was thick as if a bandage was still held in place. It drove close to his knuckle but left an inch of the actual digit to serve as a reminder. Judging by the way he was still favoring it, but could still operate without too much trouble, it was done recently too. Within the past month at the most.

Welsh or English, and held a strange resemblance to another sniper she had encountered just weeks before. She wasn't one to believe in coincidence, but there was something odd about him. Something she couldn't place words to because she had no rational explanation. The two couldn't have been related in any fashion though. Rais wouldn't allow a known relative to the very man he has been trying to break work for him. Unless Rais didn't know… No, that couldn't have been true. The drugs were probably screwing with her perception again.

Surkov watched him intently as he crouched to her feet and snipped the wires securing her ankles. Her posture remained tense and cautious, despite the shivers that pained her body with the passing seconds. She didn't breath a sigh of relief, as much as she _wanted _to, when the wire slipped off her ankles. The moment it landed in the snow, she dropped her gaze to it.

Why Kyne needed to use what appeared to be pieces of steel rope bound together, she couldn't fathom. Perhaps he heard of her impressive track record and didn't want to take chances.

Kyne unwrapped the few remaining pieces and tossed them into the back of the truck as he stood. Then grasped Surkov's uninjured shoulder and hovered the cutters near the obvious weak spot of the binding at her wrists. He fixed her with a stern glare and said quietly, "I'll cut you loose, but only on one condition. You can't run. I'm supposed to take you to Jonah, Rais's second, and he's got to take you to _Igor_. You know what that means, don't you darling?" He paused to watch her eyes widen in absolute terror, then gently pulled the gag from her teeth and continued as she fought to get moisture and control of her tongue again.

"He's going to kill you for betraying him. I was briefed into the situation and ordered to take the shot that would paralyze you before bringing you to Jonah. But I couldn't exactly do that, now could I?" Surkov's speechless expression contorted in confusion, but he only registered it for a moment before he glanced at the area of dirt road and forest. "You're a legend among all of us. Rais's perfect little soldier. And that's why I can't hand you over yet. I need your help."

"Why? With what exactly?" She blurted in broken English, her Russian accent as thick as her tongue itself.

_Nothing_ made sense. She couldn't fathom why he was disobeying Rais. Why he was freeing her after he had just shot her hours before. There had to be an ulterior motive, she concluded stubbornly as she fought to shrug away from his grip on her shoulder. This was a trap, something to give Rais justifiable cause to kill her. She wasn't a fool and she knew how he operated. There was no way he would have ever allowed something like this to happen under his nose.

A trap? Or a sincere man betraying someone else, knowing full well that if he were caught it would have just ended in death for both?

Kyne disrupted her thoughts by snipping the remaining binds from her hands, catching them before they hit the ground. He held them in front of her face using his right hand, the limp fabric where his middle was supposed to be just inches from her nose. "This is what happens when Rais doesn't get what he wants." He breathed, suddenly angry and frustrated. "Ya may have heard about that bloody finger sent to Cooper's team a few weeks ago. Well that was mine. He thought that would have made a brilliant message. The FBI and CIA and Interpol probably already have the DNA results by now. And I doubt Rais bothered to cover my ass. So I'm in the system as far as CIA and Interpol are concerned. It's only a matter of time before Cooper himself figures out who I am and once he does, it won't take long for him to hunt me down and put Interpol on my back."

"And what do you think I can do about that?" Surkov interrupted sharply, swatting away his hand with a disgusted grimace.

The older man tossed the bindings in the truck behind her before dropping his hand to his side in defeat. He peered at the road and forest line behind him again, brow tightening in impatience and worry. "I need to get out. Lay low for a while with a new name and a new life. A birdie told me you were trying to do the same. I've got contacts to get me out of Russia and into the US under a false identity. And I have family in the US now, a relative, that could help me stay hidden if I play my cards right. The problem is that Cooper will stick his nose in once he catches onto what I'm doing."

"So you want me to keep Cooper preoccupied?"

He nodded once and stepped to her side, digging in the back of his truck for two large black rectangular cases. "In return, you get a life too. No Rais, no assassinations, and certainly no death penalty for betrayal. You can pick anywhere in the world that doesn't have one of Rais's outposts. Which is only about fifty actual inhabitable places, mind you. But it's better than livin' on the run until you're caught."

Surkov regarded him with narrow and suspicious eyes. Zacchary Turner, her deceased husband, once told her that if something sounds too good to be true, it most likely is. Escaping Rais was her original plan. She was going to use the alias and paperwork given by a trusted informant to flee the country and live a new life in Northern Denmark. Everything she had gathered suggested that Rais had yet to place informants in the country, so until he did, she would have been safe. But it backfired when someone snitched. She didn't know who and at the time, she couldn't care. At the time all she could think about was disappearing.

Now some stranger, an obviously vital assassin to Rais, was offering her a chance to truly escape. But it didn't make sense and she wasn't about to go anywhere with him until he convinced her otherwise.

Kyne removed the two cases from the truck and set them on the ground in front of her. He pointed to the first and said quickly, "I know the rumors about your beloved sniper rifle. This was confiscated at the safe house you've been stayin' at." He kicked it for emphasis, urging her to open it. When she made no indication to do so, he sighed and crouched again. The moonlight poured over the black leather surface and everything else not illuminated by his flashlight in one hand. He ran his fingers over the polished locks, flipping them upwards until the lid opened with an audible pop.

Surkov almost grinned at the sight of her rifle. It was the first real relief she had felt in quite some time. She studied the polished metal, disassembled in the correct foam holsters, custom bullets lined in a neat row tip-side-down to bounce the reflective moonlight in an impressive glimmer. Then heaved a sigh and used her working hand to scrub her face, wincing at the feeling of her own freezing skin. "How do you expect me to keep Cooper busy? And how can I believe that this is not a trap? You did shoot and poison me…" She started to question as he snapped the lid closed and returned the locks.

He seemed to consider that for a moment, staring at her with considerate eyes she found impossible to look away from. Then shrugged and rose to his feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as he answered with as much sincerity as Surkov thought he could possibly show. "I recently came into some new information about Rais and his operations and the reasons behind it all. This runs a hell of a lot deeper than just a grudge or a challenge. Knowing that, I can't just stand by and let it happen again. If I would have known then what I do now, I never would have joined the bastard. You feel the same way, don't ya?"

"That does not answer my question." She replied after a moment of silence. He may have sounded sincere, but Surkov still didn't trust him. However, she may not have had a choice.

Kyne pulled the sleeve of his coat upwards for a brief moment, eyes scanning the black hiking wristwatch for the time. He looked down both sides of the road again before he turned back to address Surkov almost pleadingly. "We don't have much time left. They're going to know something's gone wrong when I don't show up at the rendezvous and send someone to look for us. I took a few short cuts to get us here so hopefully they're still a few miles away. But we can't take the chance. If you want out of this hell, now's the time. Otherwise I'll deliver you as planned and just run alone once it's over."

And there were the real choices. Escape or death at the hands of a man she once called father. It wasn't much of a choice at all, really, because she had no desire to die. Accepting alliance with Kyne was dangerous and she knew the chances of it being true were slim. But in the end, once she was faced with the simplicity of leave or die, she had no real choice in the matter.

"Details." She stated bluntly, rolling the word off her tongue as conflicting emotion thickened her accent. "How are we going to evade Jonah and his men? Who is your contact to get us out of the country? The relative you mentioned…"

Kyne held his hand up to signal silence and patience, both of which she was less than capable of at the moment. "I've got an unmarked vehicle half a mile away. I'll burn this one to kill any evidence and throw them a loop for a while. These cases are all we need." He answered with a pointed nod to the cases at their feet. "Everything else will be waiting for us at the safe house in St. Petersburg. My contact will get us a private flight to Dublin, Ireland. Then it's a straight shot to New York."

"The relative?" She questioned more sternly.

He seemed hesitant, like he wasn't sure it would be possible to convince whoever it was. Surkov had the feeling in the pit of her stomach again, the one that always accompanied troubling news, and her previous assumptions sounded less absurd as the silence grew between them. True, his eyes were relatively the same as Mick Rawson's. He, like Rawson, was obviously from a less populated area of Wales or another old English town. But none of that truly meant they were related. It simply couldn't have _that_ simple.

"It's complicated, to be honest." He finally broke the silence in a mumble, barely heard through the fabric of his scarf. "Haven't seen the lad since he was just a kid. I doubt he even remembers me..."

"Rawson?" She intervened with a knowing glare, warning him that she was not going to be fooled by a ridiculous lie. He gave a small nod in agreement and rocked on his heels nervously. "Does Rais know?"

"Why do you think he cut off my bloody finger? Rawson got close again, too close, and Rais didn't appreciate that. But he was curious and not to be an absolute ass about losing, he presented another piece of the puzzle. A kind of _yeah ya did good, but solve this next, if ya will." _

Surkov chewed on the inside of her lip for a moment in thought. They were cousins, then. And obviously not very close at that. Convincing him to help them after everything that had happened just weeks before was going to be one of the hardest things she had ever done.

But again, what other choices did she have?

She lowered herself to the snowy ground from the edge of the truck tenderly, testing her footing on unstable legs. Then carefully wrapped her hand around the handle of the case containing her sniper equipment and pulled upwards. She winced as the movement made the world swim sideways but ignored it. Turning to Kyne, she posed the most sincere and threatening expression she could muster and stated, "If this is a trick of some kind, you will disappear. But not with a new life. I will dispose of your body in a way that will leave no trace behind. And you will never know until it is too late. Do you understand?"

He nodded once and picked up his own case, pointing to the forest line several feet away. "With your reputation, I would have to be stupid to betray you."

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! Hi people! Sorry for the long wait on this. I'll try to get the next one out sooner.  
So, just a few points to make with this. Surkov trying to escape Rais is a big step for the storyline. It shows that, in a way, the team's last profile of her was wrong. She blames Rais for what happened in Alaska and she just wants to get out of the game because of it. The introduction of Kyne helps that. He was ordered to take her to Jonah, Rais's official second in command, but he wants to get out too. You won't know what he found about Rais and the organization that made him want to leave until later in the story. But it's a big thing and I don't want to give it away just yet. And yes, he is Mick's cousin. But they haven't spoken or even seen each other since Mick was child so the reunion is going to be intense. There's history between them that plays into later chapters.  
And I think that's it for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A big thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far! Like I said, I'll try to get the next chapter out sooner than this was. It focuses on Mick and Gina, with an appearance from Gina's father and an awkward moment, so it should be easier to write.


	2. Better Is No Excuse For Tonight

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend a week in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2 Better Is No Excuse For Tonight

April 1, 2012.

The first step to recovering from an addiction is admitting that you are an addict. Normally that applies to drug addicts or alcoholics. People who used an addiction as a way to temporary dismount themselves from their painful reality of life. But the same thing could be put into the context of other addictions. The phrase, _I can't help you unless you want to help yourself_, is more true than most imagine. Drug use, alcoholism, one night stands, cigarettes, they're all just ways to distract the human mind, to make themselves feel _better _for a short few hours_. _And the worst of all addictions, or at least in my honest opinion, is obsession. It's deluded with personal emotions, making it irrational and dangerous for the person and others around them. Which also makes it the hardest to beat because it's essentially a chosen state of mind that lasts for as long as the obsession torments their thoughts.

Mick Rawson may have been an exceptional liar when he needed to be, but I could see through him. Obsession is something I've always watched for in him because the basic profile for snipers and people with his type of obsessive compulsive tendencies and Post Traumatic Stress symptoms are more susceptible to it. They crave it as a source of control, as something to keep their mind busy and hide the other thoughts running through their heads. It wasn't a surprise to realize that his obsession for catching Rais ran deeper than the surface reasons. He wanted to end the nightmare Rais caused for the sake of his own sanity, and I couldn't argue with that. True, in some way he thought it would fix his brother. But the damage was already done when it came to Liam Holmes.

Obsessing over the case files that hadn't given us any leads since early January wasn't going to bring Liam out of his catatonic state. And it wasn't going to make life easier for anyone remotely involved with him.

So he needed to stop and breathe before he suffocated.

The only way I could think of accomplishing that was by a forced vacation. Somewhere away from DC, the case files dating back to Josephine Blair's murder in late December, the remnants of the events in Alaska from the changed attitudes in our teammates, and certainly away from any more judgment as to his mental stability. He had used all his vacation days until the summer, but I had several weeks saved back that I hadn't touched for just this occasion. I knew he wasn't going to be pleased with the lack of choices on his part. But it was for the best.

He said he trusted me more than I could ever know. So I asked him to trust me explicitly just one more time. No questions asked. Just follow my lead and believe that everything will be okay in the end. Simple, right?

Oddly enough, my kitten Nikola made me realize that we both needed a vacation.

The first night of April was spent watching missed episodes of _Doctor Who _from the DVDs Jenna Rawson sent Mick for Christmas. At two thirty in the morning, neither of us should have been awake. We were expected at the office by seven the next morning, but we couldn't sleep. Whether it was from nightmares, probably more true in his case than my own, or the pouring thunderstorm that shook my apartment building with every deafening crack of lightening, I didn't know.

It was becoming a habit that, over the past few months, I had learned how to deal with appropriately. Tea was a comfort for Mick, one that he didn't verbally acknowledge, just as the British television show was. It was almost strange but sincere, like another quirk to his personality that I found interesting. Honestly, I wasn't going to complain about the arrangement. We both needed rest without nightmares and if drinking tea and watching television achieved that, I couldn't argue.

"No, that's not creepy at all." Mick murmured to himself sarcastically, shifting on the far right side of the couch to find a better position. He was referring to the creature on the screen chasing the_ Doctor_ and his companion through an underground hallway, a frightening almost humanoid monster created from a clone of a living person, only with long spider-like legs and its body contorted to highlight its disgustingly long misshapen skeleton and its head twisted up-side-down as it bounded after them. Yes, that was going to be the source of my next nightmare.

He settled for crossing his legs by his bare ankles on the coffee table in front of us, his toes peeking out of the blanket half drawn up to his tattered dark tee shirt covered chest. Old holey clothing seemed to be his favorite sleep attire, more often than not choosing frayed shorts rather than just his boxers. Which I was thankful for because things were awkward enough between us. Lack of sleep had left his unshaven features weary and exhausted and seemingly sunken in, dark chocolate colored eyes slightly bloodshot, exaggerated by the flash of lightening through curtained windows and the glow of the television. Bruises had faded months ago, but I could still see them if I looked hard enough. Or perhaps that was my own contaminated perception.

The coffee mug of tea was nearly empty and he drained the last swill in a single gulp. Then leaned forward to place it on the table with a quick glance in my direction. "You don't have to stay up if you don't want to, darling." He said quietly, reaching for the remote control between us.

I shifted my own blue fleece blanket to snatch it before he could. The white silk robe I wore over black silk pajamas twisted in the blanket uncomfortably. Long blond hair was undoubtedly messy seeing as I didn't care enough to brush it at the moment. I knew I probably looked as exhausted and sleep deprived as he did. But I was actually enjoying myself, just watching television and drinking tea in silence. Other than the storm that threatened to end the show with a flicker of the lights every few minutes.

"And leave you all alone? No, I'm enjoying the show too." I responded as I straightened my robe and placed the remote control on the armrest next to me. "Besides, don't tell me that an invincible sniper such as yourself is frightened by a fictional monster on your _favorite_ television show."

He smirked at the attitude in my tone, rubbing his eyes with one hand tiredly. "Really, love? Now that's almost insulting. Although I will admit that they're creepy, ya can't force me to say that they're frightening. Unless, of course, you're frightened by them. Then I might have to agree with you. But I make no promises to keep it a secret from our teammates." He replied teasingly, allow his accent to thicken in a subconscious portrayal that he thought he was comfortable to relax in my presence.

At the mention of our teammates, I grinned wider. It was technically April Fools' Day. Meaning Beth and Prophet were going to be enjoying themselves when we arrived to work in the morning. More than likely, Mick wasn't going to let either of them out-prank him either. He did hold the record on his first April Fools' Day in our team for the most immature pranks on innocent and not so unsuspecting fellow FBI agents. Myself included. It took a week to squash the rumor that Mick and I were secretly married among our peers. And not everyone at the bureau still believes that we're not a couple.

I shrugged with a small laugh, pausing the television as I turned to him. "That sounds a bit ridiculous." He nodded in agreement, chuckling for a second as another flash of lightening lit up the room. It wasn't until I looked towards the window that I realized something odd. Frowning in curiosity, I asked quietly, "Where's Nikola?"

Maybe it was irresponsible for me not to know where the kitten was. But it was late, and I was tired, and that was my best excuse. The reason for the window drawing realization to mind was because Nikola had a tendency to sit on the sill, pawing the glass and making a strange noise between a squeak and a meow at passing birds and anything else that moved. Just a week before I had to pull him out of the curtain because he got himself wrapped in the fabric when he lunged at a passing bird. I was starting to think that perhaps he needed a playmate. Possibly another cat or something else to distract him from trying to hang himself in my curtains.

Mick turned in his seat to look behind the couch, studying the rest of the silent living room. His frown matched my own as he rose to his feet and answered, "He was sleeping on my bed earlier. When I got up, he ran off towards your room. You didn't see him?"

Obviously not. Nikola was still small enough to carry in one hand, weighing almost nothing and unusually tiny for his age of just over a year. His black and gray fur was long and often tangled, hence why I had to buy a small brush that he didn't appreciate. The remnants of his tail, only a few inches, was usually seen as his personal play toy when he was bored and found the kitchen stool to hang on. In the darkness of night, as I learned a few days ago when I almost stepped on him on the way to the bathroom, keeping track of the normally rambunctious kitten was difficult.

I shook my head and followed him around the edge of the couch, placing my coffee cup on the table to be refilled with his own later. "He's a dark kitten in a dark apartment. He kind of blends in with the carpet."

Mick scrubbed his eyes again, and for a moment I wondered if not forcing him to go back to sleep an hour before with the sleep medication Wendy Flores prescribed in February was a mistake. He had been rather persistent about not taking them, _ever, _claiming that I would have to shove it down his throat before he swallowed one. Over the past several months he had been to a dentist because the area of the tooth he lost in Alaska became infected, which wasn't a pleasant experience, multiple bruises and lacerations seemed to take forever to scab and fade, and I had to convince him to see a chiropractor after he awoke one morning and could barely move because the knots in the damaged muscles on his back were screaming. Thankfully the FBI offered health insurance that paid for all of that. So he needed rest. It wasn't just beneficial for his mental state, but for his physical well-being too.

He stretched the kinks out of his back from when he had been slouching on the couch and sighed heavily. Then took off down the hall towards our separate rooms in a steady walk, leaving me to catch up. I waited a moment, watching another crack of thunder and lightening that rumbled the building illuminate the fact that he lost the limb in his step a month ago and his gate seemed better after every reluctant session with the chiropractor. It was a minor improvement, but I would take whatever I could get.

I slid into a steady rhythm behind him, reaching the light switch and flipping it on after he ignored it. "He's probably sleeping under the bed." I said in hopes to ease the sudden tension for myself. No, I didn't truly believe Nikola was simply sleeping.

The last thunderstorm that passed through DC had lasted for hours, and Nikola was horrified the entire time. He tried to bury himself down the couch before he saw Mick and I enter the apartment after work. The small claw marks in the cushions still held the evidence. But what really had me convinced that something was wrong was the fact that Nikola didn't come running to Mick and I as soon as the storm started. The last time, he crawled up Mick's jean clad leg and tried to hide himself in his jacket. When I finally managed to get him off, I had to sit with him on the couch until the storm dissipated. By which time Nikola had turned into a quivering mess of fur tucked in my lap as if he were a frightened child.

I knew Nikola had personality, which was one of the traits I loved about him, but that was almost surreal.

Mick's sudden halt just outside the guest bedroom he called his own was indication enough that he didn't believe my words either. He raised an eyebrow, giving me a tired expression I recognized as questioning. "He's terrified of thunderstorms. So either he's wormed himself into a hole somewhere, too scared to come out, or he's gotten himself stuck. I'd rather find him now before he makes a mess on something." He replied honestly before advancing to my bedroom again.

I didn't follow again, just stood back to lean against the nearest wall and watched him turn on the light and whistle for Nikola. For a rescued stray cat, Nikola was usually very trained. He often came at the sound of our voices, or Mick's whistle, and the lack of a speeding kitten trying to climb up Mick's leg again left both of us slightly more worried than before. I called out his name myself, thinking that maybe he just didn't want to listen to Mick for whatever reason. But didn't receive a response either.

At least, not in my bedroom. There was a thump from the guest room though, so faint that I almost mistook it as an aftershock of another clap of thunder. It was something cloth falling onto the floor, not very large or from a distance meaning it was something that had gotten knocked down relatively close. Which I had no doubts that Nikola was probably the culprit. Mick's expression mimicked my own as I turned towards the noise instinctively. A few more quick steps later and I was in the guest room, illuminating the area with a flip of the switch and searching for the source of the noise.

In the onslaught of bright light, my attention fell on Nikola immediately. He was climbing out of Mick's tattered tan bag once propped against the closed closet door, ass-end first and dragging something out with his petite but razor sharp teeth. Claws were extended to gain friction, digging into the files and papers and leaving small slices in his wake. Few sniper shell casings rolled out between the files behind him, brushing his furry body and causing him to jump in surprise. Why he wanted something from the bag, I didn't know. But it seemed important to him as he was rather adamant about dragging it with him.

"Damn it! No, Nikola!" Mick hissed as he shoved past me and lunged for the kitten. Nikola was quicker as he finally removed the item from the bag and dashed under the bed with it between his teeth. For a brief moment it looked to be a piece of red cloth, weathered, slightly larger than the kitten's head, and clearly part of some old stuffed animal plush. But as far as I knew, Mick didn't own anything like that other than the bear I bought him almost a year ago.

Mick dropped to his knees beside the bed, pushing the blankets up so he could try to weave his way under the frame. That wasn't going to work though. He was thin, sometimes I wondered if not unhealthily so, but he wasn't going to be able to work his way underneath to reach the kitten. It didn't appear that he cared as he pressed himself into the carpet on his front and strained to stretch his arm as far under as possible. "Bad Nikola! That's mine, ya bloody animal!" He scolded angrily.

I crossed the room to the bag and shoved the items back inside, then hung it by the patched strap on the closet door. At the same time I shot him a harsh glare and responded, "Don't yell at him like that. He's just a kitten…"

"That stole what's left of my bloody dragon!" He interrupted sharply, pushing his arm further under until his shoulder disappeared.

Those words, the angry and somewhat childish tone, it all led to the conclusion that it did belong to a stuffed plush animal at one time. His _dragon_ was probably one of the only things he had left of his old home in Wales before it was burned down by an arsonist, which unfortunately also killed his parents. It was new information to me because he never mentioned a piece of a stuffed dragon before. He had told me about the pieces of his favorite blanket his mother had sown him when he was born, the remnants of her prized piano he spent days listening to. I had seen the pieces weeks ago after a therapy session with Wendy Flores. So where did the _dragon _come from?

"Where did you get it?" I asked as I sank to my knees on the opposite side of the bed, pushing the blankets aside to look underneath at Nikola. The only plausible reason I could think of for the kitten's interest in the cloth was that it had a particular smell. Something that Nikola found appealing and therefore, he just took it. Much like his obsession with his favored catnip filled toy mouse.

Mick ceased his brash movements of his hand near Nikola, furrowing his brow as he looked at me from beneath. "Nowhere. I mean, I've had it forever…" That was a lie. I could hear it in his tone, in the quick response and the contradiction he had accidentally set himself into. And it looked as though he realized his mistake before I could argue. He bit his lip roughly, mentally kicking himself, and pressed his hand into the carpet inches from Nikola. "It's a long story, darling. Can ya just help me get it back?"

"Then you'll tell me the truth?" I countered determinately. Yes, I was frustrated and agitated at the prospect of being lied to. After everything we've been through, and the new aspect of our not exactly _romantic_ relationship, he was lying to me again. We made an agreement back in January that we would be truthful to each other. Everyone, our teammates included, had to follow that as a new rule Cooper set in place for our team. And I thought he trusted me enough to keep his word.

Mick groped for Nikola again, heaving an annoyed sigh when the kitten hissed in warning and backed away. "Fine, yeah, I'll tell you after I get it back." He conceded once Nikola swiped his claws towards his hand, spitting with a rather uncharacteristic growl.

For whatever reason, Nikola wasn't going to let Mick have the cloth back and he was ready to fight tooth and claws against it. Something Mick didn't appear to heed as he reached for Nikola again. I tried talking calmly to the kitten, knowing that it usually had a sort of relaxing effect on him, but Nikola was too frightened by the roaring storm. When he dropped the cloth from his teeth once more and lunged for Mick's hand with all claws and teeth extended, I didn't even have time to warn him to back away.

Mick yelped in pain and surprise as sharp claws and teeth embedded into his hand, sinking deep and relentless to draw blood. Nikola wrapped around his wrist in an effort to pierce harder and deeper. Back claws kicked and dug into skin, giving momentum to the painful attack. The sniper was quick though, twisting his hand to grasp his fingers around the kitten's stomach tightly. He cursed in Welsh as he used his opposite hand and feet to withdrawal from the bed. Then grabbed him by the gruff of his neck and forced the kitten to release his hold on his bleeding hand, leaning his back against the edge of the bed tiredly. "What the bloody hell has gotten into you?" He seethed as he held the kitten at arms length by the back of his neck, making sure Nikola couldn't turn and latch onto him again.

I used the temporary distraction to get the cloth Nikola had been protecting so violently. Once I could physically touch it, I realized why Nikola had such an adverse reaction to it. It was brittle in some places, the stitching falling away with age and pieces of the interior padding poking through. But it smelled of ash, faded gasoline, Nikola's favorite cat treats, and human decay, as if it had been in a coffin for years before it was removed. I studied it for a minute before climbing back to my feet, confused and unsure of what to think about it.

Nikola squirmed towards me as I sat on the bed next to Mick's head, ceasing his sputtered hissing to meow in a pitiful cry. I tossed the cloth onto Mick's lap with a sympathetic wince at the sight of his bleeding hand still holding the kitten at bay. Then gently eased Nikola out of his grip and perched him in my lap, scrubbing his head in comfort as he shook with another crackle of thunder. He curled himself into a tight ball of fur, slightly damp in places from Mick's hand which meant I had the unpleasant task of cleaning him with towel later, and tried to bury himself into my robe. "You okay?" I asked Mick as he twisted his hand in front of his face experimentally and flexed his fingers with a muffled hiss.

He nodded once and leaned his head against the mattress, then used a nervous finger to attempt to touch the kitten again. "Yeah, it's just a few scratches. No big deal, right? Besides, he's been vaccinated for rabies and anything else that could make one of us sick. I am curious as to why the hell he tore into me though. It's not like him to be violent, even when he gets scared."

"It was probably instinct." I pondered aloud, comforting Nikola with soft strokes to his fur. Mick gave me a confused expression, silently asking me to elaborate. "That thing smells like ash and human decay and gasoline. Nikola, for as much credit as we give him, is still a cat. He must have smelled it and decided to act upon what his instinct told him because he's afraid of the storm too. The piece of your _dragon _probably brought on some primal instinct. Add to the fact that you were yelling at him and reaching for him, it's no wonder he attacked." I gave the cloth in his opposite hand a quick pointed nod for emphasis.

That was the best explanation I could fathom. True, there were some holes in the theory. But from a basic standpoint it made sense. Nikola was already terrified and Mick and the smell of decay just made it worse. Of course, there was still the question as to why Mick had something that would have triggered the primal instinct to begin with.

"Where did that really come from? And don't lie and tell me that you've had it forever. I'm not blind or stupid. The pieces of your mother's piano and your blanket doesn't smell like that…" I pressed for an answer sternly, giving him a harsh glare as he stared up at me.

His expression morphed into frustration again and he dropped his gaze to the piece of cloth still clutched to his hand. "Okay, ya caught me. I lied." He blurted as he dropped the piece of fabric to the carpet beside him, using his hand to pull at his messy hair out of habit and stress. "But there's a very good explanation for why…"

"And I would love to hear it." I retorted sharply, impatiently watching him for signs that he was going to be honest.

He rose to his feet and started pacing a moment later, his bleeding hand kept close to his chest as the blood started to clot but didn't look at it while the other pushed his hair flat every few seconds. That was a classic symptom of his PTSD. The constant need to move, the inability to look at corpus amounts of blood or gore, the faint triggers of stress that always kept his hands busy to exact control over his environment. It was all textbook. And I will admit to feeling horribly guilty for ruining our somewhat decent night of television by unknowingly triggering it again.

"You can't tell Cooper or Fickler or anyone else." He stated as he ceased his pacing for a moment to look at the tan bag hanging on the closet door. I frowned deeper at the slight panic to his words, but nodded in agreement regardless. He crossed the room to the bag, searching through it to retrieve a file before perching himself on the end of the bed. The paper was flipped open on his lap, photos and records sorted through with a quick flip of his wrist. I repositioned Nikola and turned on the bed to sit cross-legged, peering over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

After the incident with the CIA in Alaska, our team wasn't technically allowed to work the case any longer. It fell into CIA and Interpol jurisdiction because Nina Surkov and Rais were not United States Citizens. Their crimes effected the US, but the FBI had no legal obligation to get involved. But the events in our gym base, the murder of five FBI agents, one of which was found to be a mole in the department for reasons still unknown, that was considered FBI jurisdiction. Director Fickler fought with his superiors to keep Cooper and our team on the case because he wanted answers too. Unfortunately they didn't agree and it was handed to another team working under the anti-terrorism department. Which Fickler had access to, but no one else on our team did.

None of the red tape of the FBI stopped our team though. Fickler wasn't blind enough to miss the fact that we had been meeting at Cooper's loft for the past few months to discuss the case once a week. He didn't intervene, which was appreciated, and if anything he helped us get files and details we weren't legally allowed to have because he trusted that Cooper could find an answer as to why everything happened.

So seeing the case file in Mick's lap as a slightly thicker version of the one I hid in my own bedroom shouldn't have been surprising. The only difference was new material. Photos and notes and few records with the Interpol insignia printed at the top that I had never seen before. I couldn't make out faces on the photos because they were too grainy. However, I did recognize one he passed as a much older version of himself, or rather, his father.

That was absolutely baffling.

"It is a piece to my dragon." Mick mumbled as he pulled a picture from the mess and shut the file with a snap. "It's all that's left of it. After the fire and the rescue workers pulled my parents out, they tried to salvage anything else for Jenna and I. The rest of it was nothing but burned cloth and they said I couldn't keep it because it was doused in accelerant. They weren't even sure how that little bit survived." He paused for a moment to gather his voice, tapping the photo on his fingers nervously. "So I asked them to bury it with my mum because she was the one who made it. And they did. I watched them put in the coffin during the service. I mean, I know it could be a fake but I'm almost positive it isn't. Mum sowed my initials on the wing…"

"Then how did it get here?" The question slipped past my lips before I could stop it, slightly more demanding than I intended. I leaned forward to cross my hands on his shoulder, balancing my head on the top so I could see the photo he was fidgeting with. The act was comforting because it was familiar. Mick appeared to calm minutely, forcing the photo down onto the file top before scrubbing his eyes.

The photo itself was crinkled and ripped on the edges, the paper obviously set back to the late 1980s, and clearly taken in their home. He was only about six or seven at the time, dressed in black sandals and dark blue shorts and sleeveless tee shirt. His dark hair was cut shorter but still stood in various directions. And he was small for his age but somehow strangely adorably so. He was grinning to show off his teeth, two missing on one side, and holding what looked to be a handmade impression of the dragon printed on the Wales country flag. Behind him was his mother. She had the same deep rich eyes, slightly curly dark hair that hung just over her shoulders, and a grin that rivaled her son's as she was crouched behind him with her arms wrapped around him affectionately.

It was hard to look at and think about how much that little boy in the picture had grown up to see and do such horrible things.

"I don't know how or why it's here, really, darling." Mick answered sincerely. "Remember when the flat was broken into while we were in Alaska? Jenna and Nikola…" I nodded and squeezed his shoulder gently to signify that he didn't need to recap. How could I forget that the FBI team Fickler assigned had torn my apartment inside-out to make sure there was no unwanted surprises after a mysterious man broke in? Jenna was still frightened about everything she had witnessed and Nikola was obviously no better. "It was left under the carpet in the closet, beneath one of my suitcases. I found it last month, but didn't tell anyone because I didn't know what the hell to do about it. So I added it to my profiles of everything Surkov said on the ship before she disappeared and what I know about Rais and his organization…"

And he must have realized that there was a bigger connection than we first anticipated. Something he wasn't going to tell anyone else because he was afraid they would have taken it in the wrong context. Hence why he had information pertaining to his parents and their deaths in that file. It was connected in some way. I just couldn't understand how exactly. Not without reading through the files myself and creating my own profile.

But it was almost three o'clock in the morning. We were both exhausted. And I had no real desire to wrack my sleep deprived brain for answers regarding the biggest mystery I have ever attempted to solve at that very moment.

So I stopped his rambled explanation with a single finger pressed to his lips, catching him by surprise as I forced him to look at me. "Stop." I demanded sternly, feeling Nikola climb off my lap as another roll of thunder echoed the building and settle against the pillow against the headboard. Mick hesitated for a minute, but finally surrendered to look at me with bloodshot and desperate eyes. It was then that I realized just how far his obsession went, and I had to put a stop to it before he had another panic attack. "Just _stop._" I reached for the file in his lap as I spoke, drawing it from him to place it on the bed beside me. "It's late, we're both exhausted, and we have work tomorrow. We'll figure this out, whatever it is. For now you just have to stop and calm down."

I've lost count of many times I've said those exact words. It's like a broken record, really. But that time was different because there was no hesitation. There was no argument from him or reluctance from me. I just spoke the truth and he listened. Which was something I never honestly expected from him.

He drew several long breaths to force himself to relax, twisting his fingers together despite the obviously painful movements on his right. Then nodded once and scrubbed his eyes for the forth time. Had I been anyone else he probably wouldn't have conceded. But something about my presence, I was sure Flores had a technical definition for it, always broke that shell of pride. He trusted me, appreciated my words and often took them to heart, and I haven't seen him do that with anyone else other than Cooper. For a while I thought it was simply because I was trustworthy. Because he didn't see me as a threat and therefore we became friends. But after everything that had happened in the past several months, I was starting to believe it really was something deeper.

I looked back at Nikola, who was still shaking due to the storm and curled into a tight ball on the pillow, and sighed in defeat. Excusing myself for a brief moment, I scooped the kitten into my arms and crossed the hall to my bedroom. Once he was deposited on the bed, upon which he slid under the covers and out of sight, I returned to find Mick flexing his fingers tenderly and watching the new dribbles of blood slowly leak down his skin.

"That's going to need cleaned." I said as I took the file on the bed and the cloth Nikola had chewed and replaced them in the bag on the closet door. When he didn't look up to acknowledge me, I came to stand in front of him with a weary expression. Grasping his clean hand to gather his attention, I continued quietly, "We've still got ten minutes left on the episode of _Doctor Who_. I want to see how they get out of it and I'm sure you do too."

He looked up at the mention, studying me for a moment before he rose from the bed and allowed me to lead him to the bathroom where the first aid supplies were stashed. "I should have told you sooner." He stated as we entered the small bathroom. I closed the lid to the toilet and forced him to sit down. Then searched for the red first aid kit under the sink counter.

Yes, he should have told me. Every little detail is crucial when working a high priority case such as this. Profiles were ruined with the new information, weeks we spent collaborating had just been flushed down the drain. If Cooper would have known, our search would have been different. Because despite what he didn't say, I heard what he was too afraid to admit. Someone had access to his parents graves, which wouldn't have been surprising had it not been for the fact that someone would have had to dig up his mother's coffin.

I knew Mick wasn't religious even in the slightest, but I was fairly certain he considered that a heinous sin.

"Yes, you should have told all of us the moment you found out." I replied as I found the case and propped it on the counter silently. "This changes a lot of our profiles."

"Or it's another way to lure us in a hole." He countered.

I withdrew the necessary antibiotic cream, antiseptic pads, bandages, and towel from the shelf near the walk-in shower for his hand and crouched in front of him. "Either way, this can probably wait until morning. I'm sure Cooper will know what to do with the data. For now, I'll patch this up and then we'll finish watching the show."

He flinched as the towel was used to start cleaning away the blood from the scratches and responded, "Sorry for keeping ya up so late, love. I know it's ridiculous just to stay awake with me…"

I pressed the towel harder against the torn skin and shook my head in dismissal. "It's not like I could sleep well anyways. Both of could use the company."

Mick forced a small smile in approval as he responded, "I never thought I'd find another mate to drink tea and watch _Doctor Who _with in the middle of the night."

Honestly, I never thought I would be the stability for a mentally damaged sniper. I guess we both had our peculiar expectations of life. Neither of which actually involved each other. But I sure as hell wasn't going to complain.

* * *

"_Gina LaSalle, you need to call me back as soon as you can. Ariel has rescheduled her wedding to Keith Sykes for the twelfth of April. Until then, she wants all of us at the beach front vacation home in Jacksonville Florida for a family reunion. Your mother and I are still making plans to get everything set for the wedding, but Ariel expects you to be there and so do I. So either return this damned message, which is the seventeenth one I've left over the past week, or I'll contact Cooper and Fickler to give you vacation time. I know you're embarrassed by our family, but we need you at the wedding. It's tradition. So call back as soon as you get this. Bye."_

It's times like these where I regret buying an answering machine.

I was in the kitchen when I heard the frustrated and crass tone of my father, digitally enhanced with the faint static as the answering machine in the living room near the television echoed through the otherwise silent apartment. He was angry and impatient, and knowing my luck, he was probably on his way to my apartment at that very moment. I was less than enthusiastic about that idea.

To be honest, I was less enthusiastic about attending Ariel's wedding.

My father was wrong though. I didn't feel embarrassed by my family. They were just _pushy_ and I didn't necessarily appreciate that. Blame it on the self independence. Or the more psychological fact that my family was always moving from one military base to another which made childhood a bit difficult to stay connected with friends. But I refuse to admit that I resent them to that because I honestly don't. I didn't _like_ it, but that was just how life was. And in some way I guess I didn't want to return to that lifestyle of inconsistencies and loneliness.

Ariel wouldn't understand that. We were three years apart with her being the youngest in the family. She graduated the FBI academy in early 2011 with flying colors to work in the White Collar units, and I hadn't been fortunate enough to evade the graduation ceremony. As far as my parents were concerned, she was the brilliant genius who had a record in the White Collar units for solving the most cases as a rookie, and for agreeing to marry a very well respected US Air Force Pilot two years older only after three years of dating. Was I jealous? No, I didn't think so. Although it was infuriating to hear my parents praise her for her work solving mortgage frauds and art thefts rather than me, who worked with the best Red Cell team in the FBI and helped catch the nations most terrifying serial killers. You would think that would deserve some recognition, right?

The only advantage I could see for accepting his demands and enduring a little over a week with the entire LaSalle family in Florida was the vacation. I hadn't been to the Jacksonville beach house since I was about thirteen years old. But I still remember the private section of beach it sat on, the nearby seafood restaurants I used to love, and the trips south to _Disney World_ for a few days. So perhaps agreeing this one time wasn't such a bad thing. I needed to get away from DC to clear my head and so did Mick. Although, convincing my parents that we weren't actually a couple and I was just dragging him along because it was beneficial for his mental health was going to be a challenge.

I paused in stirring the pan of scrambled eggs I was making for Mick and I for breakfast, smiling slightly at the thought. A nice vacation away from the troubles of the world sounded very appealing, especially after the events of last night.

"Gina! Did ya feed Nikola yet?" Mick shouted from the hallway outside of the bathroom, accent somewhat amused. He was supposed to be taking a shower and shaving the few inches of scruff on his face. Not playing with the kitten that had torn patches of skin off his right hand the night before. I expected him to hold a grudge against the kitten that had inadvertently dragged new information about Rais's case to light at almost three o'clock in the morning. But he seemed to forgive him. Seeing as I awoke just forty minutes ago at six to find him sleeping on the couch with Nikola curled on the opposite seat.

I pulled the pan of finished eggs from the stove top, turned off the burner, and plated them on two glass plates with matching pieces of buttered toast as I relied in a loud shout, "Just ten minutes ago! Was he drinking out of the sink again?" Then brushed my hands against a kitchen towel next to the sink and turned to the coffee maker still piping steam from the top.

Another one of Nikola's strange habits was to interrupt Mick while he was shaving and try to drink the fresh water from the running tap. It was usually a way for us to know if he was being particular and wanted his water dish to be scrubbed clean and refilled with ice water.

The sound of bare feet on carpet was my response. I spun on my light gray ankle sock covered heel and placed the breakfast on the table behind me, knowing it would only be another minute or so before Mick joined. Despite only obtaining two and a half hours of sleep, I felt oddly at peace. I busied myself with cleaning the utensils and pan I used to make breakfast, rolling the thin sleeves of my low cut maroon long sleeve that seemed to highlight my favorite diamond pendant necklace received from Mick on Christmas above my elbows and wiping my hands on my dark skinny jeans out of habit. Thankfully my hair was bound in a loose bun to keep it out of my eyes.

Remnants of the previous night's thunder storm had left the first floor of the apartment building without power because lightening had blown a fuse. It was only by some luck of wiring that the rest of the building wasn't without power and I could actually cook breakfast for us. In the living room, I had opened the curtains a few inches to allow the morning sun to brighten the apartment. It made Nikola happy when he didn't have to fight the cloth to scratch at the window for the birds outside.

"Yes, the little bugger was drinking from the tap again." Mick answered as he entered the kitchen. He set Nikola on the floor gently and leaned against the door way. I turned towards him as the small black and gray kitten bounded for his food dish excitedly, surprised and suddenly uncomfortable by his appearance.

He was only half dressed, nothing but his dark jeans held to his waist by his belt and his dog tags around his neck. Obviously he had just gotten out of the shower and decided to shave when Nikola interrupted, leaving his hair ruffled but still dripping along with the few drops that were still clung to the hairs on his arms and his chest. I avoided eye contact with the scars littering his skin, seeing as they were all haunting reminders to the injuries he had obtained over the years. He folded his arms for a moment as he watched Nikola and I, shivering slightly at the onslaught of air conditioned breeze from the vent above his head. My own gaze fell on the lack of bandage on his right hand, leaving the thin scabbed slashes visible. It made sense that he had to remove it to shower, but I was almost afraid of infection because his luck was just unpredictable like that.

"Breakfast is ready then, eh darling?" He questioned as he pushed himself away from the door frame and approached the table.

I stopped him in mid-step with a hand inches from his chest. A smile tugged at my lips as he frowned slightly. I would have had to be emotionally stunted to not admit that he was physically attractive. Every other woman he came in contact with was sure to agree. But I commended myself on the fact that I didn't fall for the grins and flirting like most others. Still, there was no way to mask the faint redness crawling towards my face or the nervousness that urged me to look away out of respect. "This isn't a cave or your personal den. When a man lives with a woman, in which neither are in an relationship, it's proper for them to wear clothing. _All_ clothing that covers the majority of skin. Not just some." I chided with a growing smirk. He chuckled and nodded faintly, and I realized this was part of his _Rawson April Fools' Day Hell_. It was a way to make me feel embarrassed, and I was already plotting a comeback to rival him. He shrugged and turned on his heels to head back to the bathroom without an argument. "You can be really immature at times, you know that?" I called out behind him as he entered the hallway.

The only response I got was a laugh as he disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door with a jab of his heel loud enough to startle Nikola.

I was going to return to the kitchen sink, but the loud crack of knuckles against the front door seemed to have other ideas. It was stern and somewhat intimidating, not as impatient as Beth or Prophet but certainly just as demanding. Three knocks was standard and even paced. But I knew who it was just by the tone alone.

"Gina! Who's that?" Mick called out from the bathroom again.

Except this time I didn't answer. Instead I waited until another set of knocks rang through the apartment and Nikola came running out of the kitchen, galloping for the door in raw excitement. Mick knew that my father expected me to attend my sister's wedding. It had come up in conversation over dinner days ago. But I didn't tell him that I was considering it. Nor did I tell my father that Mick and I were living together. I was sure he could have found out about our living arrangements from Fickler and the reasons for why. And in some way I prayed that he didn't bother to break my rights to privacy by spying on me like that. Besides, I had no intensions of ever introducing Mick to my parents, even if we were a couple.

"Gina! If you're not too busy, would ya get the door please!" Mick hollered again, this time poking his head out of the bathroom door. The shaving cream covering half his face was almost comical, forcing another grin to my face.

I huffed a sigh in defeat and hesitantly unlocked the door, mentally steeling myself for my father's upcoming verbal assault and accusations for why I wasn't answering his phone messages. Nikola was scooped up in one hand as soon as the door was opened, making sure he didn't try to escape the apartment or climb on my father in greeting. He already liked my other teammates, Penelope and Fickler and Flores as well, but my father had an allergy against cats. Which was why I couldn't have one as a child and why Nikola meant so much to me now. Or at least one of the reasons, anyways.

My father smiled tightly in greeting as he folded his hands behind his back, slightly taller and more muscular posture stiff and reminiscent to the moments he faced his fellow military officers rather than his own daughter. His attire of black kakis and a brown button-up under an open gray jacket with matching polished shoes suggested he was at least trying to adhere to the idea of normalcy. Short dirty blond hair was more white or gray in few places than I remembered and the wrinkles on his aged clean shaven features implied a new found stress. His dark blue eyes scanned the interior of my apartment for a brief moment before settling on Nikola and I.

"Good morning, kiddo." He greeted as I pulled the door open further and placed Nikola on the floor, urging him towards the couch with my foot.

Nikola didn't want to listen as he rolled onto his back and snagged his claws into my sock, nibbling on my toes as if begging to be played with. I mumbled a quick 'good morning' before removing the kitten from my sock and crossing the living room, finding one of his favorite toys on the floor beside the coffee table to distract him. The quick but silent click of the front door latching followed my father as he studied the apartment, no doubt judging everything about it by the two coffee mugs still on the coffee table and the stack of _Doctor Who _DVDs Mick had yet to put back in his room.

"You never told me you had a cat." He said as he leaned over the edge of the couch to watch Nikola gnaw on the fake mouse. "Or that you like British science fiction, or tea for that matter."

I bit my lip to conceal the cringe and shrugged. "It's a long story. Do you want coffee? I just made a pot." I tried to change the subject, to distract him from noticing the sound of running water from the bathroom and the two coffee mugs. Both of which probably painted a very unnerving picture. When he shook his head in refusal and stiffened with a heavy frown, I knew I had no such luck. "It's not what you think…"

"It's not? So you don't have a roommate? Or a boyfriend that kept you awake all night? I can see that you didn't sleep well last night, it's written all over your face. Is he the reason you're not returning my phone calls?" He interrupted sternly.

"No. I mean, yes I do have a roommate. But he's not my boyfriend. We're just friends and teammates. Nothing more and nothing less. And he sure as hell isn't the reason why I didn't return your calls. I've just been busy." I stammered nervously, teetering on my heels and feeling as if I were seventeen and had disappeared for the evening with my boyfriend before showing up hours after curfew and being scolded for my irresponsibility,_ again_.

"Busy? With what? I talked to Director Fickler and he says that your team has been doing local cases for the past few months. He wouldn't go into detail, but he mentioned something about a reprimand because your team disobeyed direct orders months ago. But he never once said that you and a teammate are living together."

I swallowed convulsively, stuffing my hands in my back pockets and digging my toes into the carpet. Lying to my father had never worked in the past. He was always able to see past it, whether it was school related or another boyfriend I lied about just to see after school. So what made this time any different? Nothing.

"Okay, so I wasn't necessarily busy. Weddings aren't really my forte and I just have too much to deal with already…"

"So you can't take ten days with your family over work?" He questioned harshly, narrowing his eyes in an expression I recognized as relentless demanding. Somehow he always knew just how to push my buttons, to make me angry enough to concede because arguing with him was the equivalent of yelling at a brick wall. It wasn't fair for a father to do that to his daughter, to make me want feel like an inconsiderate ass. Although I doubted he cared, I always felt as though I had no other choice but to comply when he used that tone. And it wasn't a feeling I enjoyed.

"I could…" I mumbled and focused on Nikola to buy time for a more logical argument.

"Gina! I think Nikola stole my sock again!" Mick shouted as he exited the bathroom and entered the living room. His left foot was bare while the right was shielded in his standard black sock. The sudden rigidness beneath the navy blue button-up I was particularly fond of as dark eyes fell on my father followed a surprised expression on newly shaven features, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline which had been careless raked through with a brush.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than the carpet to swallow me alive.

"You must be Gina's roommate." My father offered his hand as he approached the cautious sniper, studying the younger man intently. "Lieutenant Commander Dean LaSalle, US Navy. I have heard absolutely nothing about you." He waited a few moments, drawing himself to full intimidating height as he stared down Mick as if daring him not to return the greeting. Both were alpha personalities. Meaning neither would willingly surrender to the other. The tension between them was suffocating, thick enough that I was sure neither were even breathing.

Then Mick ended it with a twitch of his head and a mask of compliance that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He shook the other man's hand roughly, forcing a smirk as he glanced towards me. "Well, that's not really surprising. She didn't tell me her _father_ was coming for a visit either." He shot me a another raised eyebrow expression, silently begging for an explanation as he grasped his hands behind his back in the standard 'at ease' position.

"Well I'm not staying for breakfast. I leave on a plane to Florida for Ariel's wedding in a few hours and thought I'd stop by to see if there's any way to convince my _wonderful _daughter to join me for a family reunion."

"Reunion? Sounds fun, eh darling?" Mick responded, urging me to join the conversation.

No, it didn't sound fun. Reunion meant more than my immediate family. My uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents, some with a southern drawl worse than my mother's and others with the personality of a psychopathic teenager who was undoubtedly sneaking drugs behind the bleachers after school. Those were not people I honestly wanted to be around. The last time I went to a reunion just before FBI academy graduation, my senile uncle recited ridiculous stories of his time in the CIA, one of my cousins set a bon fire that almost caught the house on fire and then sat on his ass and laughed while we scrambled to put it out, and my grandmother forgot the sugar in the coffee cake she was supposed to serve for breakfast, accidentally replacing it with salt. Which was disgusting. So I was going to try to evade that nightmare again if I could have thought of a better argument as to why.

The only decent part about the entire thing was the prospect of time away from cases. And the more I thought about that, the more it sounded as though I would have been making a horrible mistake if I refused.

I craned my neck back to stare at the ceiling, stopping my fidgeting movements to sigh loudly in defeat. There was no other lie or excuse that would have made the situation better. So I squeezed my eyes shut in hopes that I was still dreaming and replied, "Fine, you win. I'll go to the damned reunion and wedding. But I want to say, for the record, that I'm not happy about this. And I'm not going alone. Otherwise I'll be placed with one of Sykes brothers during the dance and I would rather shoot myself than have those creeps anywhere near me."

Surprisingly enough, my father just chuckled at my last words and smiled in victory. "They are a bit eccentric for their age." He paused to look at Mick, tone suddenly stern again. "I expect you to behave in the presence of my daughters."

Mick gave a confused glare to me before cocking his head to the side slightly and asking, "You think I'm going with her?"

"I expect you to, yes."

That was one thing Mick didn't account for. I could read in his gaping expression, the twitch of his fingers as he tried to formulate an excuse. The truth was that I wanted him to come with me to Florida. Perhaps it was selfish, but I honestly didn't care. Life was easier with him around, with the exception of how he managed to always find trouble without meaning to, and his presence at the reunion would have made things better. He was a distraction when he wanted to be. Funny, witty, entertaining, just enjoyable to be in the company of in general when he wasn't tormented by an unsolvable case.

I gave him a pleading look, one that I knew he never refused in the past, and silently begged him to agree. Why that look always led to what I wanted from him, I didn't want to fathom too deeply. All I needed to know was that he hardly ever blatantly refused when I asked for something, unless it was something ridiculous, and I played that to my advantage.

He dropped his gaze to the floor after a few moments and responded, "Never been to Florida before. When does the plane leave?"

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back!  
So, this is very Gina/Mick oriented. Nice, right? There's several things that were mentioned that I will use to create more one-shots in Intermission. Such as the trip to the dentist. The entire chapter turned out really good, although different than I imagined. The _Doctor Who _episode they were watching, the tea, even the small amount of humorous dialog, it was just fun to write. Then there's another key part to the mystery, in which Nikola literally drags up. The piece of Mick's stuffed dragon has a very important significance in the storyline. Someone did take it from his mother's coffin. The question is just how, by whom, and why they did it exactly. Gina's not going to let that go entirely, but it's not something she and Mick are going to ponder too much during vacation. Cooper and the rest of the team are going to have to solve that mystery. The hints to Gina's relatives is just the starting point for that aspect of the story. You'll get to see the cousin with a love for fire, which doesn't go over well with Mick, and the rest of her family soon. Her father isn't a mean man, he's just very strict and Gina's not the type to simply bow down. I think that's of the reasons why I like her character so much.  
Now, I just want to say that Nikola's behavior is based off of my cat Holly. She is really terrified of thunderstorms and she knows when one is coming before it actually rolls in. Yes, she does try to bury herself in the couch, and in the lap of whoever is closest. It's actually very adorable and pitiful. She's more accurate than any weather forecaster I've ever seen. Lol.  
I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far!


	3. Made A Scene

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 3 Made A Scene

Surveillance, by definition, is often done in the shadows. It's a tool like any other to obtain information on a subject thought to be responsible of a crime. More often than not, used to locate and build a case pertaining to a criminal of some sorts. Law enforcement isn't always discrete in their methods. Which is a problem at times. Sometimes their methods scare the suspect into hiding, and that leads them nowhere in the long run of things. Other times, depending on who runs the operation exactly, discretion is thrown out the window on purpose for a distraction.

It's a brilliant plot, really, because it's unpredictable. Dangerous, the slim chances of success far outweighed the benefits should they get caught, but impressive all the same.

The CIA and FBI was more apt to do something like that than any other local law enforcement. They had the necessary tools for a long surveillance run, the manpower and time unhindered by the daily traps of normal life. But the FBI didn't spy on their own people. There was no point in it. And the CIA wasn't legally allowed operations inside US borders, but they didn't seem to heed the same laws as typical society.

Beth Griffith knew the technicalities of surveillance. It had been almost ten years since she was in the FBI academy, taking the courses pertaining to the different known methods of how to spy on an unsub and gather the necessary evidence legally whilst not getting caught so the unsub wouldn't disappear before he was apprehended. So she was a bit rusted on a few finer details as far as how to create the best lie to get in and out easily. But she remembered the basics as if she had just learned them the night before, seeing as she had been studying her old text books over the past several days.

She knew they would have to divide into teams to cover more ground. If it were an operation that wasn't sanctioned and therefore held the risk of local law enforcement sticking their nose in, the team would have been less than five operatives. Two in a less than discrete black delivery van parked a block away from the target's location, watching the nearby traffic camera feeds to maintain visual. Three others on the bustling street itself, keeping themselves back and separated as to remain inconspicuous, like any other person walking to work on a beautiful April spring morning.

Beth had to give them some credit, the three on the street were not entirely obvious.

She had lost her patience for the CIA operatives weeks ago. Being followed on a daily basis, to the parking lot opposite her apartment building, the grocery store, her teammate's homes after work at the gym office, was starting to wear her nerves thin. Cooper had made it very clear to ignore it for the time being, reasoning that they wouldn't escalate to invading personal boundaries, such as home, unless provoked. It was considered odd that they hadn't tried to spy on her teammates in their own homes using electronic bugs, seeing as that would have been their best source of information and therefore the smartest maneuver, but Cooper suggested that it was part of the psychological game.

Had Beth been in a more reasonable mood, she probably would have taken that assessment into account.

As it was, she was not having a decent morning. It was the first of April, April Fools' Day ironically enough, and the universe seemed to have its sights set on playing the worst joke at her expense. Six o'clock in the morning came and went without the buzz of her alarm clock she relied on every morning. The damned power had gone out during the storm the previous night and had reset the timer. Meaning it didn't wake her until two hours later. By then, she was frantic to get dressed and rush to the office before Director Fickler showed up and realized she was late, or before Cooper called a search team for her.

There was no hot water due to a blown fuse that had yet to be replaced, leaving her with an unpleasant two minute cold shower that she cursed her way through with every second. Her gray and black suit had gotten wrinkled horribly in the dryer and she was left to an old pair of black dress pants, a navy blue blouse with a button missing from the bottom, and her one inch heels that Gina's kitten, Nikola, seemed to think was a wonderful scratching post. Long dark hair was still dripping on the back of her light gray suit jacket, tied in a loose pony tail to keep it out of her face. Desperate need for caffeine was written clearly on her features, but she couldn't afford the time it took to stop at the local café.

Her car, much like the rest of her belongings that morning, decided that it didn't want to start. After fumbling with the engine for twenty minutes and coming to the realization that it was actually the starter, she abandoned the vehicle with a harsh kick to the front tire and a vivid curse that would have made her male teammates blush. Then gathered her bags from the interior and started down the street for the office just over two miles away.

Thankful for cell phones, she dashed between people on the busy street in a relentless pace and dialed Cooper's number to inform him of her latest misfortunes. The concrete was slick in few places beneath her shoes from the rain that had finally stopped just after the sun reappeared in the sky. Sunlight basked over windows of cars and buildings she passed, reflecting in a blinding glow Beth avoided eye contact with. She kept her head down as she power walked, keeping the cell phone pressed to her ear and paying little attention to her surroundings. There was a slight brisk wind but other than that, the temperature was moderately comfortable.

It was perfect weather to enjoy an outside breakfast. Not chase pointless leads on a cold case.

"What do you mean they aren't going to help us with the case? If Fickler is right and we've got a new lead, we need all the help we can get." Beth argued with Cooper adamantly, clutching her cell phone and bags over her shoulder as she pushed her way past another couple.

Cooper had just enlightened her to the newest predicament their team was facing. Fickler did have a new lead as to the events in their gym at the end of December, when a finger was sent to the office under Mick's name and the suspect used a mole in the agency to murder the fellow agents before killing himself. That particular case wasn't technically theirs any longer. But Fickler wanted to know why the hell it happened, or so Beth assumed, and he chose to help them find the answers. Meaning the newest piece of information the director had was probably very crucial.

That wasn't the only thing Beth found disconcerting. Mick and Gina weren't going to accompany them during the investigation. Beth knew that Mick was obsessed with finding the bastard behind the mess of everything that happened to him over the past several years. Which was understandable, really, considering he lost too much at the hands of an elusive monster. So it struck her as befuddling as to why he wouldn't place himself in the front when a new lead presented itself.

Unless he didn't know.

Cooper sounded haggard as he responded in a low tone, tired and disturbingly crass as if he had been arguing with someone. Beth knew he hadn't been sleeping well, none of them had after what they learned months ago, and she feared that it was beginning to affect his judgment. "I tried to convince Commander LaSalle otherwise, but he wants Gina in Florida for the next ten days. His youngest daughter, Ariel, is getting married and requested a family reunion. Mick is going with her so her, and I didn't exactly protest to that because he needs to get his head back on straight. A vacation is good for both of them." He explained over the rustle of what sounded like his jacket. Movement in the background, though Beth knew he was still in his office, sounded as though he was packing for something.

Beth thought he was joking. It was the holiday to play ridiculous and immature pranks on friends and family. But Cooper rarely ever took part in such behavior. He was more inclined to sit on the sidelines and give them advice on how to best each other, and often stopped them from carrying things too far, finding amusement and entertainment in the situation like any other father figure.

Most of the meetings they held in regards to the Rais case took place in Cooper's loft twice a week. There was minimum chance of exposure to unwanted ears via the CIA operatives that way. The files were never taken out of the loft, and Beth was fairly certain Cooper hid them in a secured safe somewhere on the property. But they weren't scheduled for the meeting until later that night, using the cover of a weekly card game and dinner at Cooper's expense to fend against other claims. So where was he going?

Beth frowned deeper as she came to a stop at the edge of the crosswalk, the red hand on the electronic post and the cars in front of her restricting her from going any farther for a few minutes. A few various thoughts came to mind as she waited impatiently for the light to turn green and the cars to yield.

To start with, Mick Rawson and Gina LaSalle were the definition of a bizarre relationship. They both liked each other more than either dared to admit. And they had grown closer over the past year, something Beth could only sit back and watch in fascination because logically, they were an anomaly. Both were restrained enough to keep their relationship professional, despite Beth's relentless implications that they were anything but. After everything they had experience as of late, that was no small venture. So why would he agree to something that planted the idea that they were a couple?

April Fools' Day had nothing to do with that. Beth was absolutely positive.

"Are you going somewhere?" She voiced her next query, tapping her heel on the ground as she pulled her gaze from the crosswalk sign. Scanning the small crowd that had gathered with her in wait for the green light, she skipped through the unfamiliar faces to someone she did recognize.

A smile tugged at her lips as she quickly scanned the thirty two year old CIA operative, dressed in a gray suit and matching black flats. Sunglasses on a thinly shaven face hid his emerald blue eyes as he appeared to be fascinated with sending a text message on his smart phone. The wind rustled light brunette hair, cut short to his scalp and neat just above his ears. His suitcase in hand gave the appearance of a businessman, someone with money that was just trying to get to whatever law office he used as cover. She had encountered the same man multiple times over the past several months and, thanks to Fickler, he was identified as Carson Hall. His alias was Carson Price. On the outside, the CIA gave him the life of a lawyer assistant. No family in DC or parents at all. But grew up in the foster system with four other brothers in Toronto, Canada before moving to the US when he was eighteen. He seemed like a normal man just trying to make a living in the US, credit was a bit too low and the rent of his apartment was a week overdue, nothing particularly interesting about him.

But Beth remembered him as one of the CIA agents they had ambushed in Alaska. He had argued with Prophet and Mick at the time. And he was following her again.

"Yes, actually I am." Cooper disrupted her thoughts with a shuffle of what sounded like his backpack. "I've got a friend and his wife flying in from Galway, Ireland. Their plane lands in half an hour and I promised to pick them up. I'm borrowing Prophet's car so he and Flores will be here when you finally arrive."

"Who is it? And why are they coming all the way from Ireland? That's a long ways from home…"

Cooper seemed to hesitate for a moment, the silence on the line almost irritating save for his breath in the receiver. "He knows just as much about the case as Mick does. For the most part, there's a lot he remembers that Mick doesn't. I called him last month and told him what happened, and he and his wife want to help in whatever way they can. I can't fill you in on the details over the phone…"

Beth breathed a sigh of relief and understand as the cars finally yielded and it was safe to cross the street. Of course he couldn't give details over the phone. The phones weren't trusted because they could have been cloned and the calls could have been intercepted. Normally Beth would have considered that entire prospect ridiculous and paranoid. This wasn't normal circumstances though.

She pondered for a few moments, as she crossed the street and resumed her previous pace, who the mysterious person and his wife were. Someone from Mick's first team in Iraq, that much was obvious. If he remembered much more than Mick about the incident, then it was safe to assume he probably fled to Ireland after being discharged from the SAS and kept his head down so he wouldn't have drawn attention to himself from Rais and his goons. He most likely suffered from PTSD that made Mick's look like a simple panic attack too.

As far as she knew, based on the small bit of information she and Prophet had to basically pry from the younger sniper weeks ago, Liam Holmes was in a mental home after he attempted suicide which resulted in catatonia and severe brain damage. Evan Bennett was a linguist teacher at a private secondary school, or the US version of High School, in Liverpool. Brett Phillips voluntarily quit SAS and moved to Glasgow, refusing to have anything to do with Mick or Cooper. And James Mills, the commanding officer of the team, disappeared to Plymouth with his girlfriend after Liam's suicide attempt and Mick hadn't heard a single word from him since.

Considering Mick admitted to having no contact with any of them in more than five years, it could have been any of them.

"Yeah, I get it." She interrupted with a short smile, glancing over her shoulder at Carson Hall again. "He's taking Mick's place then and Flores takes Gina's?"

"That's the plan. I thought a new set of eyes would help and there's not very many people I trust to take this information to. As it is, trusting him with it wasn't my first idea. It's probably not going to end well, knowing my luck. But it's all we've got for now." The senior agent responded, followed by the click of his office door opening. He must have closed the door and turned to leave, but stopped just short of taking another step. Pulling the phone from his ear slightly, Beth heard him shout, "Prophet! I told you to keep Nikola in the office!"

Beth grinned at the mental image his words painted. The black and gray kitten had a tendency to find ways to get into things at the office. Just two days ago she had found him in her desk drawer, chewing on the remnants of her ham sandwich she had been saving from lunch. She couldn't even find how he managed to get inside the desk. So to think that he had gotten past Prophet again and wormed his way into another amusing position brought the first real smile to her face for that day.

Prophet's voice was muffled in the background, apologizing and making excuses as to how the kitten managed to slip past him when he opened the door to leave for the restroom. That was followed by a faint squeak, as if he had scooped the kitten into his hands and Nikola was less than pleased at the motion. The sound of Cooper's sigh in the receiver was more telling though.

"We're in charge of Nikola until they come back?" She questioned, hoping to draw the reason for why he seemed so tense to the surface.

"It's only for ten days. That's not a problem. I had a dog before when I was younger, so a kitten shouldn't be that difficult." He replied as boots were heard treading down the staircase to the gym.

"Then what is the _problem_? And don't say there isn't one."

She heard the senior agent snort a curt laugh, picturing him shake his head as he answered, "There's no way in hell to fool you."

"Absolutely not."

"It's just politics of the job. Nothing you need to worry about. Fickler's breathing down my neck to figure out this case and I'm still drawing blanks. Add that to the fact that Mick and Gina are going to be absent for this case just to please the LaSalle family traditions, and the fact that the CIA is still monitoring our every move, I guess I'm just a bit overstressed." He conceded with another sigh, pulling the gym doors open to leave.

Beth fought to hide a grimace in sympathy. She had never been fond of politics herself. They were often more trouble than what was necessary, people who tended to make a simplistic problem harder without realizing it. Hence why she wasn't a favorite agent among the FBI superiors.

"That's completely understandable. Actually, I've got one following me now." She responded with another glance at Carson. He stayed a dozen paces behind but constantly looked up from his cell phone in her direction. When she caught his stare, she feigned a smile and a wag of her eyebrow, as if coaxing him to approach her. "Either that, or he's stalking me because he likes me. Which I'm kind of doubtful towards."

There was silence on the phone from Cooper, and Beth could almost imagine his surprised expression at her blatant attitude. It didn't last for more than a few seconds as he contemplated a response. "Beth, you know you can't escalate things. Just pretend you don't know he's there. If we don't overstep, they won't either."

Beth rolled her eyes in frustration. She knew escalating the situation on their end would have been problematic for both parties involved. It would have been relatively _stupid_, honestly. So she _should_ have just continued walking towards the office as if nothing had changed. But she was not in the mood for some damned CIA operative to be tailing her and play nice about it. Her morning had metaphorically blown up in her face and she was not going to put up with more absurdity.

"Fine, I'll keep my head down and play nice." She lied easily, dropping her tone to mask the chances of being heard by a passing stranger. Perhaps it wasn't her best lie. She wasn't like Mick, who could spin off a tale of woe in the length of a breath and make you believe every word of it. However, she had been quite convincing in the past. Mostly to her father during her rebellious years. Cooper would fall for it too, right?

No, not really.

"You don't play _nice_ with others, Beth. It's not in your nature…" He started to argue through the background muffle of cars on the street as he exited the gym.

"Gee, thanks. That's such a polite thing to tell a woman." She retorted rhetorically, rounding the street corner a mile from the office.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." The senior agent almost growled defensively.

Beth cocked her head to the side an inch and just chuckled in amusement. "Oh, I know what you meant. And you're absolute correct. I don't usually like people in general. This guy, he's no exception. But to maintain chivalry between the CIA and the FBI, I promise not to do anything that would get us into trouble."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you've been friends with Mick for too long. Maybe paranoia is contagious." She heard him chuckle at that and couldn't help but laugh herself. "I'm a mile from the office now. You should concentrate on driving rather than talking to me." She continued as she heard the rustle of car keys and the latch of a car being opened. "If you scratch Prophet's car, none of us will ever hear the end of it. So please, for the sake of all peaceful things in the universe, do not wreck his car. It isn't like a motorcycle."

"Believe it or not, I do know how to drive a vehicle with more than two wheels." Cooper countered over the roar of the engine. Beth mumbled her uncertain comment, thankful he didn't seem to hear, and glanced at Carson again. "I'll see you in about two hours then. Take care of Nikola while I'm gone. And don't let Prophet anywhere near you with his laser pointer. Nikola takes after that thing like a bat out of hell and doesn't care who or what he climbs on to get it."

Beth suppressed another laugh and nodded against the phone. There was a very good reason why Mick refused to let Prophet buy a laser pointer for Nikola a few months ago. The reason being that Nikola was too playful at times. Which tended to get him into trouble when he chased flies up door frames and furniture, or played with one of his favorite toy mice until he became oblivious to the feet of others around him. Prophet must have bought one a while ago and waited to play with the kitten when Mick and Gina weren't able to watch him. Much like a grandparent spoiling his grandchildren when the parents were away.

They said their goodbyes a moment later, leaving her to slide the phone back into her jacket pocket. She readjusted the straps over her shoulders for her bags and scanned the area once more. One more mile seemed like an eternity, and Beth was already feeling the stress of her bags on her shoulders weighing her down. Her purse was not too heavy. But her laptop bag with the necessary attachments like the charger and the other long strapped briefcase containing cold case files she had been pondering the night before was beginning to ache.

"This is ridiculous." She murmured to herself when she caught Carson Hall's eyes on her through his sunglasses for the umpteenth time. As much as she wanted to announce to everyone on the street that he wasn't a lawyer, she promised not to make a scene. Anything public would have risked blowing their operation. She doubted they would have been forgiving the second time around.

With a rather loud exhale, she slowed her steps to observe the passing shops, hoping to find a distraction for just a few minutes. Her gaze fell upon a small independent doughnut shop wedged between a hair salon and a cell phone store. The hand painted green letters on the door indicated the same place Prophet usually frequented for doughnuts for the rest of the team. Other than the hand painted scrawl work, more like advertisement, on the shaded windows and glass doors, there was really nothing that made it stand out as far as surrounding restaurant competitors. The brickwork was old and needed to be patched in few places. A pastel white awning above the doors was peeking with holes and a bird nest at the top. Outward appeal was certainly not their main attraction.

They had good doughnuts. And she had missed breakfast. Of course, she wasn't particularly hungry. The recent course of bad luck had pretty much squashed her appetite, and she had no desire to tempt fate and choke on a damn doughnut. It was a convincing cover though.

She veered towards the building in the same even pace as before, casting one last glance at Hall to ensure he realized where she was going. His own steps faltered as he watched her through the sunglasses, and Beth felt a certain ping of pride knowing that she had dislodged his own agenda.

The interior was colder than the outside spring air to conserve the colorful pastries lined on the glass encompassed counter-top, spanning one section of the shop so the building was almost split in two. Beth counted three employees dressed in jeans and green tee shirts with the logo of the shop dyed on the front and back. One served the few people in line at the cash register. Another worked behind the counter a few feet from him, cleaning a tray to replace it with new merchandise. The last was talking with one of the three families seated in the cushioned dinning area, looking in her direction with a quick smile in greeting before returning her attention to one of the children.

It was a comfortable little shop. The air smelled of coffee, tea, scones, muffins, and doughnuts. Which only made Beth's stomach ache in rebellion for the lack of food. The overhead music was some mundane jazz station she couldn't name, but somehow relaxing all the same. She could see why Prophet liked the place.

She waited on the sidelines, away from the door as one customer left, and tried to look inconspicuous as she waited for the CIA operative to enter. The people were staring at her though and she was being to regret the detour when the employee talking with the family started to approach.

The doors opened again, the bell over the glass ringing to announce a new customer, and Beth sighed in relief at the sight of Carson Hall. He offered a nonchalant smile in her direction before heading towards the line. The sunglasses were removed the moment he stepped inside and placed in the front pocket of his suit jacket. A tight knuckle-whitening grasp on the handle of his briefcase contradicted his attempts to remain carefree on the outside. He had to have known he was being led to a corner for questioning. But if he were to keep his eyes on the subject, he had to follow Beth into the building and find the best lie possible for doing so.

And that was what Beth was hoping he would do.

She placed herself in the line behind him, forcing a grin she prayed was enough to fool him because it sure as hell wasn't a true grin of happiness or amusement, and tapped his shoulder pointedly to gather his attention. "Hi, I was just wondering if you knew what was the best thing to get from here. It's my first time here…"

"No, sorry, I don't. It's my first time too. A friend told me about it and I thought I'd check it out before work." He lied simply, if not a little short for her liking, and flashed an apologetic expression to seal the lie. It was easy for him, meaning he had taken several moments to catalog the area before estimating the possible scenarios. That implied a high IQ, quick to adjust to his surroundings too. Interesting…

Beth fought to hide the narrow of her eyes in distrust and the scowl that slipped on her face. If he wasn't going to bend in that manner, then a bit more force was required. "Okay, why don't we start out with coffee. It smells good, and I've never been to a small place like this that doesn't serve decent caffeine." She pressed, trying to appear innocent as he turned to raise an eyebrow at her.

She was sure he was going to refuse again. It was considered dangerous to have a conversation with the mark of the surveillance. One wrong word or motion could have compromised the entire operation. Therefore actually sitting down and having dinner with the person, unless they were an incredible liar, was usually not prohibited. Of course, that only applied if the suspect didn't _know_ they were being watched.

So when he shrugged and nodded in acceptance, biting his lip for a moment in clear nervousness, she was temporarily too confused to respond.

"Okay, coffee it is then. I'll buy, but only if you give me your name and number so we meet back here for breakfast tomorrow."

Beth could have sworn the world stopped at the second he said those words. He was flirting,_ with her, _and she just stared at him with a gaping expression. She never meant to appear like she was flirting with him. _Flirting_ wasn't her style. Ever. She had boyfriends in the past, a fiancé she never spoke of after he left her at the alter when she was twenty three, so she knew how to flirt. But it had been a while. And Carson Hall was attractive, she wouldn't deny, but she had no desire to think more than just that basic thought.

He seemed to realize his mistake rather quickly, even if it was just a cover to get in and out of the building without losing his alias, and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Unless you've got other plans…"

"No, actually I do. Have other plans, I mean." She stumbled in response. "You already know that though." She dropped her voice low enough to barely be heard over the jazz music overhead. He looked genuinely confused, and Beth had to remind herself that the man was probably one of the best liars she had seen aside from Mick. "You know my schedule because you've been following me and my teammates since we disrupted your operations in December." She continued, refusing to move as the others in the line progressed forward.

"I have no idea what you're talking about…" He murmured as he stood rigidly, rooted to the spot.

"Yes, you do." She interrupted. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. CIA operatives working in the US to spy on FBI agents who may have a better understand of the Rais case. You and your team want answers, and so do we."

That was being blunt, Beth realized just as the words left her mouth. Blunt was probably not the best option. She hadn't mentioned that she knew his real name as well as his alias. That would have been revealing her hand too soon. However, confronting him in a slightly more confined and therefore less compromising space was much better than the alternative. It gave both parties some room to be honest. Although Beth doubted he would ever fall for that.

Carson sighed heavily and narrowed his eyes at her, clearly displeased with her tactic. "Hypothetically, if I were one of these so called _operatives, _then why would I be talking to you? Why would I risk blowing my cover for coffee?"

"You wouldn't. You're not, actually. Orders were to follow the team and learn their routines. That way if one slips up, you could step in and get the information we have that you need without creating a mess of political shit in your wake." Beth answered honestly with a shrug.

"So you lured me in here knowing that I had to follow, and planned to what? Question me in front of half a dozen witnesses?"

She shook her head. "No and yes. I did lure you in here in front of witnesses. But I don't plan to question you. I just want you to know that my team isn't like any other FBI agents you may have dealt with before. We don't play games when it comes to our friends and teammates. If you and your team keep pushing, we're just going to push back harder. We're all just crazy enough to blow your entire operation into the limelight for the public to see, consequences be damned."

"You wouldn't do that. My superiors would have all of you locked up before the press gets one sentence on paper." He countered, voice threatening and intimidating whereas Beth maintained a calm persona.

She cocked a sly grin and patted his shoulder, somewhat sympathetic to his ignorance. "Trust me, you do not want to push Sam Cooper or Mick Rawson. They've got nothing to lose and everything to gain by getting you and your team off their backs. Face it, realistically, you can't find the bastard they've been searching for. They've found so much more over the past five months than your team has in years."

Carson pushed himself away from her, stepping out of line and towards the exit. He leaned towards her ear one last time before he left and whispered, "There's still a hell of a lot they don't know that we do. Things that could make or break the case with a little more information. You would be shocked to know just how deep Rawson is actually involved in this."

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hi people! I'm back!  
So, just a few quick points. I'm trying to use Beth's character a bit more, so that's what this focuses on. Personally, I thought the conversation with Cooper was funny in some places. They play off each other, which was fun to write. There's a hint to a fiancé years ago that left her at the alter. Which explains a lot about her current perspectives on life, I think. Just for curiosity sake, I may bring him into a later story. The part about Cooper leaving to pick up two friends from the airport plays into the main arc. You'll know who they are soon. And then there's Carson Hall. He plays into the story as it progresses. No, don't worry, there's not some kind of love interest between him and Beth. That would be a bit ridiculous. There will be consequences for Beth's actions but nothing too severe. It puts them under a tighter microscope, which Cooper won't be pleased about.  
I think that covers it for now. I'm almost done with the next installment to Intermission and I'm hoping to have it finished by tomorrow morning. So, you know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to the people who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	4. Boys Like You

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 4 Boys Like You

"Your father frightens me a bit, darling."

Traditionally intimidation doesn't work on snipers. They tend to have alpha personalities, predictable yet complicated, abnormal in a sense of society but somehow adjacent to what most would expect. Methods of dominance from others were often countered as a challenge. They're controlling to a fault and silent when necessary, normally separated from the aspects of job and life as to keep their own sanity. That makes them difficult to understand, and incredibly interesting to study.

But Mick's whispered omission contradicted that. And of course, he just _had_ to contradict the general status quo.

I stared at the Welshman intently for several moments whilst contemplating a response that didn't make my father sound less appealing towards him. Sitting in a cushioned beige seat opposite him, my hands fumbled with my diamond pendant necklace he had given me for Christmas and the small glass of white wine on the table placed between us. The muffled roar of the private jet's engines was the only buffer of noise, consistent through the off white panels of the walls and the charcoal gray carpet beneath my boots. I ignored it and fixated on the single orange tulip in a glass vase placed against the window, adding contrast to the dull interior that I found rather peaceful.

There wasn't a quick witted response or humorous jab at his expense. Only silence between us as I blinked at him in surprise. He seemed less nervous now that my father had disappeared into the restroom for the past twenty minutes. The twist of a sniper shell casing between his bare fingers was a method of self control I recognized immediately. As was the tap of his own boot against the floor in anxiousness. He spoke with a confident smile at all times that resembled the old Rawson personality I secretly adored, but I could see that he was just masking his unease because he was in the presence of a fellow soldier. There was room to tease and mock him. He didn't seem to care that he had left himself open for such childishness though. Probably because he knew that I felt the same.

Dean LaSalle wasn't a mean man. He was just a bit intense at times of stress, which made him appear more frightening than he actually was. True, he had an alpha personality too. He wasn't a sniper for the navy, more like one of their best SEAL commanders actually, and hadn't been on active duty on a mission since I graduated high school. Not since our little _fight_ when he missed my graduation for a damned mission somewhere in Northern Africa… But he did work in the Naval Criminal Investigative Services as a special consultant whenever a SEAL became involved on a case. That paid the bills for the family and helped him keep in the loop without retiring from the services. Which I couldn't image pleased my mother considering I had heard her try to convince him to accept retirement during my last visit home. So yes, he was intimidating. Especially when stressed and in the presence of another soldier regardless of which country they originated.

He had a tendency to be _too _protective over his family, myself included, which also made him seem equally intimidating. It was portrayed in the way he placed himself between Mick and I in my apartment while we packed our bags, and I knew he thought we were secretly dating even though I had been very adamant to explain that we weren't. The way he ordered Mick, who didn't get the opportunity to argue, to place our luggage in the back of his rented Ford pickup truck with the claim that a man of his caliber shouldn't make a woman fuss with such things like luggage was frustrating because it imposed on my relationship with Mick. More than that, he wanted a few _words_ with Mick once we arrived at the office to transfer Nikola into Prophet and Cooper's care during the length of our trip. They stayed in the car while I gave the necessary food and toys to my teammates with Nikola's daily routine and mentioned the events of the previous night to Cooper, who assured me that he would handle it while we were away. When I returned to the passenger seat, Mick was huddled in the back seat with his legs draw up and a very tense expression as he avoided eye contact with me.

I had seen that look before in previous boyfriends my father had a few _words_ with. It usually meant that my father had threatened them to make them compliant. Meaning the usual _if you hurt her in any way then I will bury you alive with just enough oxygen to keep you alive for the rest of your life_ was probably about as close to the truth as I would ever know. And yes, my father could be horribly convincing when necessary.

So naturally, I understood Mick's hesitation to speak freely around the man. Both he and my father were soldiers, regardless of the ocean separating them and the country, and there was an unspoken conduct most soldiers showed a commander or general while in their presence. As much as Mick didn't like to show it, he was still a soldier at heart. Nothing was ever going to change that.

"He's a bit intense." I muttered a response that I hoped sounded reasonable, trailing off to take another sip of wine. It was good wine, expensive like the jet itself and somewhat elegant. How my father got authorization to take a private jet almost an hour and a half to Jacksonville International Airport in Florida, I didn't bother to ponder too closely. He probably had a _friend_ who owned the jet and cashed in his favor.

Mick didn't find the reply very pleasing as he slouched in his seat a few inches, the exact opposite of his posture in the presence of the commander, and snorted a disbelieving laugh. "Darling, he's worse than any other parent I've met." He replied in a whisper, twisting in the seat to glance down the aisle and towards the occupied bathroom door. "He threatened to lock me in a trunk and dump me in the ocean after he _shot _me _repeatedly_ if I so much as _hugged_ you." He gave emphasis on several points, Welsh-English accent thickening as dark eyes shot daggers towards the restroom door. "And he was pretty damned convincing. I couldn't even tell if he was bluffing or not. I mean, we're not dating and he knows that…"

I cringed at the rawness in his words and ceased my fussing with my necklace. Of course my father threatened him. Honestly, I expected nothing less. But I couldn't help the roll of my eyes in annoyance as I reached for his hand to gather his attention. My fingers wrapped around his own, feeling the shell casing warm from the transfer of body heat. The scratches Nikola had left on his skin had already scabbed and he didn't care to wrap them in bandage, despite my protest, so I was careful not to add pressure to them. His gaze zipped towards me at the contact and calmed after a few seconds of realizing that we were the only two in the cabin.

Understanding why he was so wound tight at the threat was easy. He normally prided himself on the idea that he could read people. That he knew when he was being lied to and knew how to counter it. But he couldn't read a lie in my father's words because there hadn't been one. So it intimidated him because as far as he knew, my father was absolutely serious about killing him if he made physical contact with me.

Except I knew that my father was really bluffing.

"He was just bluffing to see if you would yield." I interrupted his rambling with a reassuring smile. "It's a parental thing. I'm sure you've done the same to any guy that Jenna has dated." The thought seemed very accurate, and it made for a perfect example. He practically raised Jenna, therefore became an almost surrogate father figure in her younger years, which I assumed meant that he had to deal with past boyfriends much in the same fashion as my father had to deal with mine.

"Yeah, I understand that. And I have threatened quite a few that I didn't think were good enough for her…"

"It's the same thing. He's just being protective. Don't take it as a personal attack. He's not really a violent man towards anyone unless he has to defend family, so he would never carry out any of the threats he's said unless provoked." I disrupted again, squeezing his hand gently in assurance.

He studied me for a few taut moments, obviously coming to the same realizations I had, then sighed his understanding. I followed his attention to the glass window as he gently removed my hand from his, focusing on the passing fluff of white clouds and brilliant blue ocean as the plane flew just over the edge of coastal Georgia. By my estimate, we were only half an hour from Jacksonville. I had taken enough trips to Florida over my lifetime to gage when the plane should land with some accuracy.

A change of subject was probably for the best. So I leaned forwards and rested my elbows on the table, using a single finger to trace the rim of the nearly empty glass of wine as I watched the younger man. "Why did you agree to come along?"

That had been a question I didn't want to voice in the presence of my father. Sure, I gave a rather convincing example of a pleading expression that I knew Mick couldn't refuse. But if he really wanted to, he could have simply claimed that it was a matter between my father and I and he didn't need to get involved. Perhaps I was giving him too much credit, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the simple idea of a vacation in mind for either of us.

Something that tied into what happened the night before with his _dragon_ and the entire Rais case in general. I just didn't know what that something was exactly.

Mick, once seemingly enthralled by the vast blue that rolled methodically below us, turned his attention back to me. He cocked his head slightly and furrowed his brow in curiosity. "You asked…"

"But I never really expected you to say yes." I countered, subconsciously raising my voice an octave. "I mean, agreeing to attend a family reunion with me just because I can't stand my other relatives is a nice gesture. And I really do appreciate you coming to keep me company. Agreeing to attend Ariel's wedding with me, that's huge in the scope of our relationship as teammates and friends, as well as everything else."

He chewed on his bottom lip for a few moments, his unoccupied hand finding its way into his hair just above his ear again, and I could almost see the understanding slowly starting to fill the void between us. Sinking back into the seat, he allowed his head to fall on the cushion and nodded. "I've been told that I can be somewhat slow when it comes to personal relationships, so let me see if I understand you correctly. You asked me to come with you to the wedding and the reunion, giving me that _look_ you know works every time, but you didn't think I would actually agree to it because I've had my head stuck in the Rais case for the past several months. So you're confused about the entire thing because, based on what you think you know about my personality, I should have refused and obsessed over the case while you spend ten days in hell with your relatives."

Being profiled by someone I trusted felt like a slap to the face. I was sure he didn't intend to sound rude or crass. It certainly came out that way though. I found myself gaping at him for lack of a better response. He was right in every way. The fact that he had contradicted his own basic personality profile without even realizing it baffled me. Which was also one of the reasons why I didn't anticipate his compliance. Too many days of obsession couldn't have been dismissed in a heartbeat. It simply wasn't possible.

So what was the other motivation?

He leaned forward with a slight flirtatious grin, something I couldn't help but smile at, and folded his arms on the table. "I know it's considered weird, love, but I am capable of doing _nice_ things for you without the expectation of sleeping with you afterwards. Although I wouldn't say no to a little reward."

That was his attempt to lighten the mood between us and distract me from the matter at hand. It worked, seeing as I couldn't contain a laugh at the familiarity as he wagged his eyebrows playfully. Normally, had I not been so used to his blatant flirting and immaturities, I probably would have rolled my eyes in annoyance. It was familiar and somewhat fun though, just knowing that he was still the flirtatious and childish man I grew to adore in some fashion. But I knew what he was trying to do the moment he diverted the conversation again. Whatever the real reason for his compliance was, he wasn't going to voice it. At least not without a damned good reason.

I reached forward to slap the side of his face lightly, grinning from ear to ear, and let my hand linger against his skin for a moment longer than what was probably necessary. The fact that he had shaved earlier that morning didn't seem to mean much given that I could still feel the faint stubble against his cheek. He grinned in unison, what I was sure he would call _cheeky_ and obnoxious in nature even though I found it rather appealing.

"That was _cutely _unsubtle."

The sniper shrugged as I removed my hand. "I know. Got ya laughin' though. That was the goal to begin with." He retorted, thickening his accent in a manner that usually had other women drooling over him.

"Lieutenant Rawson!"

My father's voice cut through the jet like a knife, harsh and demanding and clearly displeased by what he thought he heard or witnessed. He stood in the aisle two seats away, grasping the back of the seats on either side of him and looking like he was ready to throw Mick out of the plane while it was still in the air. Why I didn't hear him exit the restroom, I could only assume it was due to the distracts Mick inadvertently created. His cell phone caught my eye as Mick and I jumped at the sound, and I realized why he spent the last twenty minutes in the restroom.

In past experiences with boyfriends he had a tendency to get background checks to make sure I wasn't dating a murderer or rapist. Ironically enough, he did save me from a rapist once by running the background check the day before I was going to accept his offer to the theater. So I expected him to follow procedure sometime during our trip. He had contacts in almost every ally government agency associated with the US, meaning pulling Mick's records wouldn't have been hard. I was sure the majority were classified because Mick did run as the SAS lead sniper on Special Operations for years, but the basics were probably listed as public record.

Mick smacked his knee against the underside of the table as he rose to salute like any other soldier addressed by his rank would have done. The sudden strict expression slipped briefly as he cursed under his breath in Welsh and finally stood, leaning away from the chair as he saluted stiffly. It only lasted for a few seconds before my father ordered him to stand down.

I shot the older man a harsh expression as he came to take the seat across the aisle from us. "It's not what you think." I attempted to defend myself, and Mick, as he slipped into the seat and propped his elbows on the table to rest his chin on the back of his hands. "It was harmless…"

"It's always harmless until it isn't." He retorted bitterly, eyes not once leaving Mick's rigid posture in the seat across from me. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't flirt with my daughter in front of me. Show a little respect in the presence of your elders."

Surprisingly enough, Mick just nodded quickly and replied with a strict "Yes sir, I apologize sir." I was confused by the submission, until I realized that it was more related to the fact that the Commander was my father. He was following standard conduct by saluting to a superior. But he wanted to make a decent first impression for himself in the eyes of my family. Why? We weren't dating, and I didn't think he had any intention to ask me to marry him any time soon. So his actions and submission became more baffling as I pondered it.

"I'm sorry for taking so long on the phone, kiddo." My father turned his attention to me as he dropped his phone to the table, fingers flipping it around the edges mindlessly. "It was a private conversation which is why I took it in the restroom."

"You ran a background check on him, didn't you?" I interrupted in a short tone, glancing at Mick's continuous nervousness between the two of us.

"Yes I did." He responded nonchalantly. "Lieutenant Rawson's records are very extensive and sealed by the British SAS." The pause was troublesome. For a moment I steeled myself for the onslaught of what he was going to bombard me with. Juvenile records, bad experiences he was going to hang over the sniper's head as leverage to keep him in line, maybe even the entire Rais case itself. I doubted he had access to the Rais files though. That was eyes-only need-to-know information. And he didn't need to know. "I did learn that he's a highly credited sniper. The best SAS has had since your grandfather during World War Two, right?"

That was not what I expected him to say.

Mick held my gaze uneasily before he answered with a curt nod. "Yes sir. He was on the ground in Germany in 1942. Took out two enemy patrols from a single perch more than a mile away. They never even knew he was there until it was too late. He was credited for the shots because his scope, which he had made himself because he wasn't satisfied with the ones they gave him, had been damaged and he was able to rig it to work enough for him to get a general idea of the location of each target while remaining hidden. One of the patrols was going to stumble on his team who were setting a road block five miles out. So he saved them too." He sounded proud of his grandfather, and I understood why he took his sniper position so seriously. It was a historical monument in his eyes, something that made his family seem prideful and elite in the world.

"Impressive. You've got quite a history too. Special Operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, the best sniper they can put in the field, even joined Interpol a few years ago in your spare time between missions. That shows commitment. Which I just have to say, is admirable in someone who is such close _friends_ with my daughter. It's also very dangerous to be involved with her considering your line of work and track record." The older man retorted as he slid his phone into his jacket pocket and fixed Mick with an unyielding stare.

I felt like ramming my head into the table would have only succeeded in denting the wood and giving me a larger migraine. But it sure as hell sounded tempting. Reading between the lines was practically second nature. He didn't approve of Mick at all for reasons I didn't quite understand. Maybe whatever else he had learned about him was the cause. Whatever it was, I didn't appreciate the conflicting tension he created. I rolled my eyes in annoyance and dug my fingers in my eye sockets, chewing my lip while I gathered the desire to argue with him.

Our line of work was horribly dangerous. Both of us had scars to prove it. But I didn't think it was fair to say that we shouldn't have been close friends based on that aspect alone. There was the Rais case hanging over Mick's head and that was a potential death trap. Yet we always found a way to get each other out alive. Sometimes I thought that one of us would be lost without the other, simply because trouble seemed to find us. If Mick and I had never met, I probably never would have joined Cooper's team and my ex partner would have done something criminal because of his obsession with me. Likewise, Mick probably would have died on one of his first US cases while chasing an unsub.

"That's irrelevant, _sir_." Mick stated hoarsely as he drew himself to prop his arms on the table and offered a cocky expression towards my father. Apparently that was the last thing he was going to tolerate from the older man before he subverted to the more personality worthy arrogance that had often gotten him into trouble with his elders when he was in SAS. "Yeah, our job is dangerous. So is the fact that I've pissed off a lot of people who could be looking to put my head and anyone else I come in contact with on a stake right now. But ya know what, we've always looked out for each other. And I personally don't give a damn if you don't like me or the fact that I like your daughter. I would go to the ends of the Earth for her and there isn't a damned thing you can do to stop me. So you can go through whatever records you want, make whatever guesses you want about me, but if she wants me to stay with her on this trip then that's _her _choice. Not yours."

I could have sworn the world ended at those words.

No one, except perhaps my mother, had ever spoken to him like that. The shocked expression and speechlessness meant that the words had the desired effect. He seemed to be taking it better than expected though. Rather than lashing out, like I anticipated, he blinked several times at the younger man and studied him critically. It was a calculating gaze, searching for something unseen to me but clearly important to whatever assessment he was making about the sniper. Mick held it with a detached posture that only worsened the tension between them.

Then it was over just as fast as it began.

My father cracked a snide grin in what I hoped was amusement. Which didn't make any sense to me upon first guess. "It's good to see that she didn't chose someone without a backbone." After his words, I realized that he had been so strict towards Mick because he was testing him. He wanted to make sure that Mick wasn't a push over or a sexist jackass.

Let it be said that my father does care. Perhaps too much at times.

* * *

Jacksonville had been home for one year. Three hundred and sixty five days of extended vacation when I was thirteen years old. For reasons unknown, my sister and I were home schooled for that year by a trusted family friend. Which didn't exactly hurt us considering we learned faster with the tutor than the standardized school curriculum. Between those days, our mother and aunt took us to visit the tourist sights. _Disney World, Universal Studios_, museums, theaters, historical monuments, any place they deemed as _fun_ while my father was away. It wasn't just for our benefit or distraction, but for my mother's sanity as well.

Between 1996 and 1997 my father was stationed at the Naval Station Mayport. His job was never specified to anyone in his family because it was classified. But he did mention on several accounts that he was aboard one of the USS Destroyers for a special assignment. Sometimes he didn't return home for days, and when he finally did, it was only for a few hours before he had to leave again. That never settled well with my mother and their marriage while he was on active duty had been rough as a result.

We left Florida for California on a sour note, or at least in my opinion, a year later to the day. Another assignment was given, a new building classified as _home_ was bought with little regard for what my sister or I wanted, and nothing had ever been the same in my perception of the state since. No matter how many times I had returned over the course, never to the vacation home, the atmosphere felt different.

Maybe that was just a subconscious deluded perspective based on past experiences.

The atmosphere hadn't changed. It was beautifully sunny, a classic example of peaceful spring. A breeze held the distinct aroma of the nearby ocean, warm and intoxicating as the moderate temperature warranted the idea of traipsing along the beach. I will admit that it was welcoming, and I was _minutely_ excited to feel the sand between my toes and the rushing saltwater around my ankles. But beyond the calmness was a tension I couldn't shake.

By the time we were able to leave the private jet after it landed on the tarmac at Jacksonville International Airport, it was just after eleven o'clock. The interior of the airport was busy, as expected, with people coming and going in a blur. Going through customs without my FBI badge was unsettling, though not uncommon, and it took another thirty minutes to get authorization from the head of security to release our side arms. Our luggage had been separated for us and loaded on a small cart in wait. There was a coffee shop we passed on our way out of the building to meet my mother, who was supposed to be waiting for us with my father's car just outside, and I didn't refuse Mick's offer to pay for my coffee.

Heaven knows I needed the caffeine.

"So there's a good view of the ocean, yeah?" Mick questioned as he pushed the cart stacked with our luggage towards the exit, fingers tight enough to whiten his knuckles against the handle as he swerved it away from a wayward five year old bounding towards us. He was almost giddy about the idea of a beach front property, bombarding me with questions about the home since the plane landed on the tarmac some time ago. I wasn't sure why he seemed so excited about the beach. But I could read easily enough that he was looking forward to seeing the ocean just as much as I was.

My pace beside him didn't waver as I nodded. The quick clicks of my boots against the tiled floor was drowned in the sea of bustling noises, so much that I almost didn't hear the younger man's question. I sipped my coffee, grateful that it was actually pleasant and not the typical sludge I had experienced at previous airports, and grinned at his juvenile tone. "Yes, the view is beautiful." I answered truthfully as he dodged another person too busy chatting on his cell phone to watch were he was going. "When was the last time you went to the beach?" I asked with a quick glance at my father on the opposite side of him, lowering my voice and edging closer to the sniper so our conversation remained between the two of us.

The older man was too busy typing a message on his cell phone to really care what Mick and I were doing. He kept an equally steady pace a few feet from the cart, looking up from the phone every few moments to make sure he wasn't going to walk into someone or something. Whatever and whoever he was talking to must have been important. Nothing more than a few words were exchanged since he started the private conversation minutes after we left the coffee shop. The tight expression insinuated that it wasn't good news, and at that moment I really didn't want to know.

Mick leaned towards me as he replied honestly, "Not since I was a kid. The water's got to be different than in Wales, right? I mean, it smells different."

I didn't know how to reply to that at first. It was probably much different than he remembered. If my assumptions were right, than he hadn't been on a beach since before his parents died when he was eight. Meaning there was only so much he could have remembered about the ocean near his home. How it smelled, what it looked like, the feeling of the sand and the saltwater and the shells all mingling with the heat of the sun on skin, those were minor details you wouldn't think he remembered. But I was willing to guess that he remembered more than someone with his history should have.

There was a secret he was allowing to slip in some fashion. A love for the ocean I found oddly fascinating. Something he probably didn't reveal to anyone unless he felt secure with them. And I will admit that it was absolutely adorable to think about.

So I couldn't help but continue to grin in amusement and fumbled with the recycled cardboard sleeve over my paper coffee cup. "That's cute." I mumbled.

He fell into the familiar flirtatious smirk, shooting my father a quick glare as if not entirely sure he should respond. Once he realized that the older man was preoccupied with typing on the small touch screen of his Smartphone, he whispered with a wag of his eyebrows, "Ya up for a midnight swim tonight?"

I huffed a laugh in response, biting my lip to remain quiet, and shook my head. Then ceased fumbling with the cup sleeve and punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Keep dreaming."

Most would have taken the obviousness and obnoxiousness out of context, I was sure. But it was harmless entertainment for both. I knew he was the type of man to be very traditional in his basic beliefs. So the flirting was more to draw a smile on my face. He didn't really intend for me to agree because he knew that I wouldn't. It was just a game that we played with each other, and apparently most didn't truly understand that.

Including my father.

I saw the frustrated glare before Mick did. The way he gripped the edges of his cell phone as if he were going to snap it in two if the sniper said one more word. Flirting with me in his presence was not appreciated, even though it was clearly harmless and not one-sided, because he still pictured me as a child in some way. Which was infuriating to think about, really. The falter in his step proved that he was going to intervene, and I winced in sympathy for Mick when anger flashed over his features. Mick had already been warned once. My father wasn't going to be lenient the second time.

But my mother was there to stop it.

She was waiting for us several feet from the exit doors, waving her hands to gather our attention. At that moment, I was incredibly appreciative of her timing. Her attire of brown long shorts just above wrinkled knees and white button blouse over a thin frame seemed to capture her personality well. The black strapped sandals were new which meant Ariel probably convinced her to buy them. They did look nice though, mixing with the light brunette hair draped over one shoulder as it was tied back with several cloth bands. Judging by the way she waved her arms vigorously, which rattled her long strapped denim purse around the crook of her elbow, and the wide grin, she was rather ecstatic to see us.

"Dean! Gina!" She called out over the noise of people. A moment later she was jogging towards us, skirting around people and luggage carts in a fast click just to close the distance between us. My father slipped his phone into his jacket pocket as she approached, smiling warmly as she pulled him into a quick embrace. "How was your trip?" She asked as she pulled away, turning to Mick and I before he could answer. Just like my grandmother, her tone held a distinct southern accent from her youth in South Carolina. It wasn't nearly as bad as my grandparents, and in a way, it was comforting because it was familiar.

"It was…decent." He replied with a sharp expression towards Mick.

My mother pulled me into a hug next, commenting how long it had been since she had seen me and how much I had grown over the past year. I nearly dropped my coffee at the motion but didn't resist. Resisting one of her hugs usually ended in an awkward silence that I really didn't need.

She turned to Mick next, bright eyes scaling him from top to bottom with a scrutinizing look. It was curious and intriguing, like she wasn't sure who he was or why he was carrying our luggage. Apparently my father had contacted her about Mick though because instead of voicing her questions, she smiled at him in welcome. "You must be Gina's roommate. It's a pleasure." She greeted with a warm shake of his offered hand. Instead of releasing it, she pulled him away from the cart and wrapped him in a bone crushing embrace just as she had done to my father and I.

Mick stiffened impossibly, hands outstretched at his sides as if he were afraid to pull away. I caught his eyes on me, and somehow I chuckled at the pleading look. My mother had a tendency to be overbearing at times. Meaning pulling away from her when she was hugging you often didn't end well. It was a strange personality quirk, I'll admit, but one that becomes less obtrusive as time wears on.

When she finally released him, he returned to gripping the handle of the cart and replied, "The pleasure is mine, Misses LaSalle."

Clearly my father didn't tell her that he was Welsh. She appeared surprised at the sound of his accent, looking at me as if to say that the accent was appealing. "Please, it's Cecelia."

"If you're done, we've got a meeting with the Sykes family in an hour." My father interrupted the pleasantries with a pointed motion of his hand towards the exit.

Mick nodded without hesitation and started pushing the cart towards the exit once again. The older man fell in line beside him, talking in a hushed tone neither my mother or I could hear. Considering the stiff posture and slight hunch of Mick's shoulders, he was being scolded for flirting with me again. I knew Mick wasn't going to stop just to please him, so my father had to learn to deal with it. Because I wasn't going to change just for him either.

"Where's he from?" My mother asked as she walked in unison beside me.

I sipped my coffee for a moment, watching the sniper as I answered, "Wales and London. And before you ask, no we're not together. Well, I mean, we are together as friends and teammates. But not as a couple. Dad doesn't seem to believe me."

She sighed and nodded in understanding. "Your father doesn't get jealous." A moment of pause was spread as she chided her husband. "Dean, stop scaring the poor boy. He looks like a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs." Mick looked back at us momentarily with wide eyes, but my father's hand on the side of the cart to stop him from clashing into a mother and her stroller distracted him. My mother grinned as she whispered to me, "A very cute puppy. There is no way in hell the two of you aren't an item. Men like him have women lining up at the door."

I smirked and glanced at her, knowing that my father would have been jealous if he heard that. Of course she jumped to the same conclusion as everyone else. She was right though. Men like Mick were one in a billion. So I guess I was lucky that he chose me over everyone else.

"We're just friends, mom. At least until something changes that."

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hi people! I'm back!  
Where to start with this…  
There's just a few crucial things I need to say about this. First, Gina's right about the idea that Mick agreed not only because she begged him to. There's another reason that's crucial to the storyline. Her father only knows a small bit about Mick from his contact, which I will reveal later in the story, and that will also be used throughout the story. The bit about his grandfather has significance too. As far as the second part, I wanted to introduce Gina's mother. I like the contrast between her parents. It's interesting to write.  
So, I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far!


	5. Bad Feeling About This

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 5 Bad Feeling About This

Tragedy can alter ones perspective of a location. Subconsciously, it's a psychological reaction. The mind associates memories with physical things. People, places, tangible items, even sounds or smells. When something memorable happens, although sometimes it's not memorable at all but something the mind hangs onto anyways, the associated items are used as triggers. Similar to the effect of how looking at a picture of the ocean could bring back the memories created when one was actually standing on the beach and watching the waves roll onto shore. It's not often thought about and the memories themselves, given the situation, are pushed aside without regard. But the perception of a location once centered around a traumatic event experienced firsthand is often harder to ignore. The locations themselves become the trigger for the unpleasant memories. And in most cases, that's what pushed people from said location.

The Red Cell gym base had fallen into the category of places that Beth secretly grew to loath. _Loath_ may have been too strong of a word. She didn't _hate _the building. For the past year and a half it had been a secondary home. A place she could escape to with her teammates after a daunting case, peaceful and comforting despite its rustic appearance. However, the remnants of the end of December were the real reason behind her discomfort.

_That was months ago_, she reminded herself as she entered her pass code into the security keypad mounted next to the metal grate protecting the entrance doors. It was just after nine in the morning, which made her late by three hours.

Updated alarm systems replaced their older ones after December. New security measures dictated by Cooper and Director Fickler had quarantined the gym itself, pushing all other nonessential personnel out of the building with the excuse that it was being renovated. Meaning there were no more sweaty guys on mats just outside their offices beating the hell out of each other in a show of sparing and physical strength.

Still, Beth didn't think that was enough.

The agents murdered had been buried with honors for their services to the country and the FBI. Forensics had stopped intruding upon the building, looking for evidence that simply didn't exist. Information regarding the agent turned traitor was scarce and inconsistent. And what little was retold about the man who delivered a finger to the office in Mick's name had been no better. The case itself had been given to another FBI team and away from any influences Cooper could have pulled to gain access to it.

Blood had been scrubbed clean from the gym floor, but Beth could still see the outlines of five agents and their bloodied bullet ridden bodies staining the wood. Broken windows and locks had been replaced without argument from the director about costs. The few bullets once lodged in walls and doorframes had been removed and the holes patched with putty but not repainted yet. That wasn't necessarily a priority. They would get around to repainting whenever time became available. Or whenever they decided it was time to close the book on the hellish Rais case.

Essentially it was over.

But Beth _couldn't_ believe that.

Pulling the protective metal grate and entrance door open, she slid inside with an exaggerated sigh. The bags over her shoulders were beginning to leave a painful ache in their wake, and she was grateful that she had made it to the office without any more distractions. The CIA operative, Carson Hall, once following her had disappeared after she confronted him. For the first time in months he didn't stalk her to the office, which was a minor relief in itself. It put her in a better mood than the recent morning events forced upon her.

Although she was still reeling over what Hall said before he left. About Mick being more involved in the Rais case than everyone else knew. He was just trying to get under her skin, she concluded. Trying to push a barrier between her and her teammates, to make it seem as though Mick was hiding key factors about the case that were detrimental to everything involved. Mick was hiding something, she knew that to be true but couldn't prove it or even fathom what it was exactly. But he had a damned good reason behind it. If it was something that would point them to Rais, he would tell them. The CIA was _just_ trying to tear the team apart to gather information…

Shoes clattered against wood as she followed the small hall towards the entrance of the gym, the sound echoing through the seemingly empty building with an eerie vibration. Everything had been cleaned and sanitized to the best of their abilities. But Beth could still smell the blood. It was psychosomatic, she knew, and somehow she managed to push it away with nothing more than a grimace in disgust.

Beth froze as she entered the top of the stairs leading down to the gym itself. Aside from the obvious feeling of unease the room brought, there was something else that drew her attention. She frowned at it, straining her ears to hear through the clicks of the overhead dimmed lights flickering and fans twirling in a mesmerizing rhythm. It was a voice, faint and accented with a thick Spanish tongue she recognized instantly; frustrated to the near point of panic and clearly distressed as the quick prattle of Spanish words originated from a small corner on the opposite side of the room.

Unlike Mick or even Cooper, multiple languages were never her forte. She knew Spanish and English, and that was all she thought was necessary. Knowing others such as Russian or French could have been helpful in some ways. Perhaps even Welsh so she could have known what Mick ranted about when he was pissed at the world. Of course, with his fondness of brash curse words, she _almost _didn't want to know what he ranted about.

So translating Flores's argument was more subconscious curiosity than anything else. The older woman hardly ever lost her composure. It was ridiculous sometimes, really, but Beth assumed that was what made her a brilliant psychologist. She had to remain calm when her patients, like Mick, valued activity to keep themselves from thinking about their troubles. That calmness had only broken once during the months she worked with the Red Cell team. Only after she found that the case in Alaska had been a ploy by the CIA and everyone fell for it. She was furious then, although she didn't say it directly but she couldn't hide it either, much in the same manner she was at that moment.

"You have no right to do that. I fulfilled my part of the deal. Now let me speak to my son." Flores was heard seething into her cell phone. She spoke fluid Spanish, although Beth thought she was originally from Spain rather than Mexico, and translating the words took a few moments to recall the basics of the language Beth knew. Beth strolled down the stairs on her toes, clasping the railing with a free hand and chewing on her lip in hopes to maintain silence. Once she was down, her eyes fell on the corner Flores was standing in.

The older woman was leaned against one of the few support beams in the gym, one arm folded against her chest while the other gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened against her ear. Spring sunlight bouncing into the room from the high windows highlighted the brown slacks and canary yellow flower printed long sleeved blouse. Flat slip on black shoes scuffled against the wood as she listened intently to whoever she was talking to. Dark curly hair wasn't pulled back in the standard messy bun like Beth had become accustomed to, and the anxiety contorting wrinkled features was telling enough.

"Yes, I did. It is not my fault if…" Flores continued, oblivious to Beth. The pause was long before she carried on with a stomp of her foot. "That is not fair! I did everything asked of me. You can not do that!"

Beth didn't know very many specifics about Flores's life. She knew the woman worked with Cooper as a teammate in the FBI more than a decade ago. They were good friends. Trusted enough that Cooper went to her when Mick's PTSD symptoms worsened to a noticeably dangerous level. Somehow she had contacts in the CIA and FBI despite retirement from the field of criminal profiling. She liked vibrant clothing much like Beth's own grandmother did. And she was highly skilled at profiling and understand people, possibly more so than Cooper.

But Beth had no idea about her personal life. She had suspected, considering the way Cooper and Flores looked at each other at times, that she and Cooper had been an item once upon a time. That was all speculation though. Where Flores was from exactly, if she had any children or even a husband, or what she did when she wasn't psychoanalyzing her patients, Beth really could not have known.

It honestly wasn't her concern. Yes, Beth was curious as to who upset the woman enough to have her cursing the recipient. Some of which Beth couldn't translate because they didn't sound like any Spanish words she had ever heard before. Then again, she didn't have any desire to familiarize herself with alternate versions of profanity. The argument was clearly not meant for someone else to hear, and Beth could only fathom that it involved a nasty divorce or some form of legal custody issue. If Flores wanted others to know that she had a son, and her personal life with him was troubled, she would have told them. It was surprising to hear that she did have a child, and Beth _wanted_ to know more. But this was eavesdropping, and most consider that offensive.

"Fine. Then tell him to contact me personally. No more spokesmen. I want to speak with Sebastian as soon as possible." Flores hissed into the phone, throwing her head back to connect with the pillar and sighing loudly.

Beth was taking her time in crossing the gym floor, listening and avoiding watching the older woman in fear that she would have been seen. She glanced towards her every time she heard Flores speak. But continued her quiet pace towards the opposite stair case leading up to the office area. Flores paid no attention to the muffled snaps of her shoes on the wood, the shuffle of cloth as her bags swung with the movement and the darting looks. Beth supposed that was for the best, really.

She climbed up the next set of stairs towards the office with a shake of her head in dismissal. Flores had secrets just like everyone else. The omission of a son wasn't troublesome. It just meant that she valued her privacy. After everything Beth had seen recently, privacy was a virtue everyone had taken for granted until it was threatened.

"You're late." Prophet announced as Beth stepped into the office and shut the door behind her. She rolled her eyes in his direction but didn't reply to his obviousness. He had pulled his chair out from behind his desk to sit in the walk path, blocking Beth's way to her own desk opposite his. Dressed in a thin red and white baseball jacket that was left open to reveal a gray tee shirt, dark jeans frayed at the cuffs and knees, and standard brown hiking boots, he grinned at her in welcome. It was a childish grin, contradicting the days of anxiety she knew he carried with the rest of her teammates, something she expected from Mick, and Beth wasn't sure what he was amused about until she saw the small red laser pointer in one hand.

The beam was kept steady on the floor near Gina's abandoned desk chair. Nikola was attempting to physically catch the small red light, tiny black and gray furred paws scratching the floor as if he thought it originated from the ground up. The short stub of a tail wagged excitedly and the hunched posture of his furry body pressed against the floor portrayed his relentlessness to catch what was physically impossible. It was adorable, Beth had to admit, but Mick had made it very clear about his disdain for laser pointers being used as a play toy for the kitten.

"Yes I am. Thank you for stating the obvious. I never would have guessed myself." Beth retorted as she placed her bags on Mick's empty desk with a thud. The noise startled Nikola, who looked at her with his limbs outstretched slightly and his remaining inches of tail frozen. She massaged her sore shoulders and rolled the kinks from her back as she observed the kitten with a faint smile. "Is Prophet being mean to you, Nikola?" She questioned in a soft and kind tone, shooting the other man a harsh glare in hopes that he would stop using the laser.

As Mick reasoned weeks ago, laser pointers were cruel towards pets. They were self satisfying for the owner only because the pet could never catch it. The pet could run in circles for an hour, trying to get his paws on something impossible. They could wear themselves into exhaustion and never receive a reward for their efforts other than exercise. He didn't want something like that to happen to Nikola because it sounded _mean_.

At the time Beth laughed at him, stating that Gina had turned him into a _cat-lady. _He didn't find that very funny seeing as he cursed her in English and Welsh before threatening to poison her coffee with a laxative. But after seeing the way Nikola seemed disappointed about not being able to get the red dot, she realized that he was probably right.

Nikola calmed at her voice, relaxing his small muscles and turning his eyes back to the red dot on the floor. A single paw patted at the floor, without claws, as he hunkered back to the floor and observed it.

"I'm not being mean to him." Prophet countered as he removed his finger from the trigger on the laser. Once the red light vanished he placed it on the corner of his desk. Then rose from his seat and crouched behind his desk. A second later he returned to the seat with a small black backpack perched on his lap. "Gina and Mick trust us to take care of Nikola until they get back from Florida. Nikola's going to tell on me if I'm mean to him. If something happens to him on my watch, Gina will kick my ass." He stated with a chuckle at the thought.

Beth snorted a laugh in unison. It was presumed that Mick was more protective of the kitten because he was nearly paranoid about the well being of those he held close. Gina, however, proved by her nurturing care of the kitten after he was found locked in a desk drawer with a gash on his right ear during the mayhem at the end of December that Mick wasn't the one to be feared.

Prophet removed a purple plastic bottle from the bag and set the rest on the floor beside him. Then shook it lightly to draw Nikola's attention. Nikola had been searching the immediate area around where the light vanished as if he was confused about its disappearance. "Gina said she's going to take a lot of pictures while they're on vacation. She'll send them to Coop's email so we can see them here. They're going to call at noon to check up on things. And Gina promised to take Mick to _Downtown Disney _and pick up some souvenirs for everyone." He said as he opened the lid to the cat treats.

Nikola sat on his boot, small claws kneading the frayed fabric of his jean cuff excitedly. Once he had a treat in his mouth and started to chew happily Beth pulled Mick's unoccupied desk chair out and flopped in it ungracefully. Then grinned as a thought came to mind. "You think Gina will get him something resembling _Mickey Mouse_?"

Prophet's expression mimicked her own as he nodded. "Absolutely. If he comes back with a _Mickey Mouse _tattoo or tee shirt, I will post the picture on _Facebook_ for the world to see. I haven't signed into my account in seven months so I think that would be the perfect thing to put out there until I sign in again."

"He'll kill you over that one. You know he hates social networking websites." Beth replied, thinking back to Mick's quote about the international media. She leaned back in the chair, folding her legs and cracking her fingers. "What was it that he called them? _The world's best and worst invention in the means of obliterating privacy and aiding serial killers in their hunt for innocent victims. As well as having Interpol and the CIA and FBI and God only knows who else tear your life apart with just a push of a button._" Her impersonation of Mick's Welsh accent was terrible, she knew, but she laughed it away regardless. Truthfully, she wasn't fond of social networking websites either. They had made it more easy for pedophiles and mentally unstable obsession driven murderers to stalk their victims, and the age of privacy was hampered by what someone else posted on a website on a daily basis. It did become useful in some ways during an investigation though.

"Delusions of grandeur taken from a damaged, paranoid mind." Prophet continued with a shake of his head and a frown threatening to end their witty conversation.

Beth grew silent at his response. It was rather elegant for him, something she wasn't expecting, but she read something else beneath it entirely.

Pride seemed to be a problem among her male teammates. Or rather, too much of it. Beth thought it was the same for men in general. They didn't often admit _feelings_ because it was a weakness. Because they had a sense of pride to protect with their life and admitting things such as worry and fear were simply not acceptable. Some learned to swallow pride and say what's on their mind. Others, such as Mick and sometimes Prophet, didn't dare for the sake of their own image.

So Beth was surprised to realize that his words were the closest thing to acknowledging his worry for Mick's health that she had ever heard from him. He and Mick had been friends since before she joined the team more than a year ago. Prophet, in some ways, had inadvertently replaced the role of Mick's catatonic brother. They bickered and argued sometimes, got into heavy handed sparring matches when pissed at one another that ended in one or both receiving a nasty bruise somewhere for their efforts, and played childish, immature pranks that didn't often end well for someone when bored. But they were as close as Mick would ever allow because he wouldn't let Liam Holmes be _completely_ replaced.

Beth felt her own smile fade as she nodded her agreement. She focused on Nikola, who decided that he wanted another treat from the bottle in Prophet's hand. The kitten used his claws to climb Prophet's jean clad leg, causing the man to flinch and jerk his leg in reflex. Nikola dug his claws deeper and his fur seemed to grow longer at the motion, giving him the appearance of a mass of black and gray fur attached to Prophet's shin. Prophet bit his lip to refrain from cursing and gently pried the kitten off of him. Then placed him on his knee and ran a finger against the fur standing on end along the kitten's back.

The few moments of silence were awkward at best.

Beth didn't appreciate the tension, so she rose from her seat and started fussing with her bags on the opposite desk. Her laptop was removed and placed beside the bag, hands fumbling with the charger cord to keep herself busy.

"So, I take it you haven't had a decent morning so far." Prophet finally broke the silence as he set Nikola on the floor again and reached for the laser pointer. He trailed the beam of red light against the wood slowly, watching Nikola bound after it irresistibly, and continued in a low tone, "One of them was following you again? Or the universe just decided to hate you today?"

She ceased her pointless efforts to unpack her bags with a sigh and shrugged in acknowledgement. "Both, actually. That's not unusual. They've been stalking us for months now. But I confronted one. Carson Hall…"

The other man's eyes widened in astonishment and beam from the laser pointed disappeared again. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, an expression of pure seriousness overtook the once joyous mood in a heartbeat. When he spoke, it was barely in a whisper, eyes darting towards the closed office door as if he were afraid Flores was eavesdropping. "What did he say exactly? Did you profile anything about the case from him? Like if they have a lead"

Beth furrowed her brow and shook her head. "Not exactly. They know some things we don't and vice versa. It was just the way Hall said it though. He said that I would be shocked to realize how deep Mick is actually involved in this mess. And I think he's right. I think we're looking in the wrong place."

Prophet clasped his hands together in thought, eyes falling on Nikola once more as he considered the ramifications to her words. "Adeline was following me this morning. I lost her by leading her through a one-way street going in the opposite direction. Her little energy efficient compact couldn't gather enough speed to avoid the garbage truck I cut off to block her. She didn't get injured as far as I know. But the front end of her car is totaled. I did circle back to make sure she was okay. She was yelling at the truck driver and someone else on her cell phone." He responded hesitantly, drawing his hands up to run through the thin remaining hair on his balding head. Then exhaled loudly and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head as he continued. "I think you're right. Maybe we're going at this the wrong way. Cooper is picking up some old friends from the airport and he should be back any time now. He said we've got a new lead as to what happened at the end of December thanks to Fickler. But he wouldn't tell me what it was. I've got the feeling that it's something pretty damning though. Something he didn't want to reveal just yet because he was afraid we would tell Mick and Gina when they call in at noon."

Beth splayed her hands against the desktop, tapping her fingers against the smooth wood in consideration. Cooper did sound troubled when she talked with him. At the time he blamed it on stress. And Beth was inclined to believe him. But something about that didn't sound right. It didn't _feel_ right. If there was one thing she leaned about working with a Red Cell team, it was to always trust instinct and intuition. At that moment, her instinct was screaming that Cooper was withholding information for the sake of someone's safety.

"Any idea on who the mysterious friends are?" She questioned as she grabbed her laptop computer and returned to the desk chair, stepping over Nikola as the kitten searched the floor for the red laser.

He shook his head as he returned the laser to the floor, twirling it in a small circle to watch Nikola chase his own tail for it. "A couple from Galway, Ireland. I was curious so I asked Penelope to get the flight manifest. There was only one flight from Galway to DC within the past twenty four hours and it landed at eight fifteen this morning. What's weird is that there aren't any names I recognized. At first I thought it was someone from Mick's first team because Cooper said that the man remembers more about what happened and he's agreed to help us. But there's four people named James and two named Brett and three named Evan, and none with the same last names as the men Mick served with."

"So we won't know until they show up here." Beth replied as she opened her computer and waited for it to load the operating system. It was curious in the aspect of secrecy. She was confident it was someone from the mess in Iraq all those years ago. Liam was out of the question because he was catatonic and brain damaged, so if he ever awoke Beth was sure Mick would have been the first person contacted. Whoever was coming must have changed their last name, both him and his wife, to hide from Rais. Beth didn't think Rais was truly fooled by just changing a last name though.

"I don't think Coop told Mick that someone's coming, or that we've got a new lead." Prophet stated after a few uneasy moments. He was still using the laser pointer to drive Nikola in circles. At one point the kitten narrowly missed the leg of Beth's current chair, digging his claws into the floor to stop himself. Then took off after the red light excitedly as the hair on his short tail stood on end.

He was probably right. If Mick and Gina knew they had a lead and someone from Mick's past was traveling all the way from Ireland to assist, they wouldn't have agreed to take the vacation. Of course, ten days with a family of military personnel and a wedding for a sister Gina obviously felt slighted by didn't sound like much of a vacation.

"No, he probably didn't. But that's for the best, isn't it?" Beth responded sincerely as she started to type her password into the computer.

He nodded his agreement but wasn't given the opportunity to continue the conversation. Beth didn't need him to. She knew where the conversation was headed, had played it through her head so many times over the past few months that she assumed she had every possible scenario planned from start to finish. So she understood, fingers hovering above the track pad on her computer, and didn't protest any interruptions.

The office door opened with a click as Flores poked her head into the room. She stayed perched outside for the most part, one hand on the door from and the other on the door knob itself. Beth could see the haggard expression beneath the smile, the way it didn't reach her eyes despite her best efforts. Whatever and whoever she was arguing with left her physically exhausted. And Beth had the utmost desire to question it then and there. But now wasn't the time to quell any selfish curiosities. So she remained silent, eyes falling upon Nikola again as the kitten looked confused when the laser pointer vanished in front of him. Prophet scooped the kitten into his hands and perched him on his lap as Flores gave a pointed nod over her shoulder. "Sam is back." That was all she had to say before she pushed herself away from the door frame, leaving the door wide open for Nikola to escape, and rushed back down the stairs to the gym.

Beth set her computer on the nearest desk, shutting the lid to reserve battery, and accepted Nikola as both her and Prophet rose from their seats. The kitten squirmed in her grasp and attempted to jump down as they left the office and started down the stairs. She held him tight, making sure he didn't jump and hurt himself when he landed. Nikola wasn't the most graceful cat she had ever seen and had a tenancy to jump without looking. Which could have ended badly for him.

"Flores seem a bit off today to you?" Prophet whispered once they reached the bottom of the stairs.

She nodded slightly and leaned closer to him, although he had more than foot of height in comparison to her, and answered in a bare whisper. "Family trouble of some kind. I heard her arguing with someone in Spanish on her phone when I first came in. It didn't sound pleasant."

He didn't say anything afterwards concerning the subject. Instead he raised a surprised expression as Cooper and Flores and the couple from Ireland came into view near the opposite staircase.

Cooper was dressed in his usual attire of baggy jeans well worn with age and black leather jacket splayed open to hint to the navy blue tee shirt. He appeared to have shaved the night before but the stubble on his dark skin was still thick and gave him a more dirty and exhausted impression. Like he hadn't slept at all the night before. On either side of him sat two brown leather suitcases. The airport security luggage tags on the handles implied they didn't belong to him, but to the couple he was introducing to Flores.

The man was relatively the same height as Cooper, between thirty two and thirty five judging by the thin blond mustache and beard, but considerably thinner. He was tall and lanky, hunter green windbreaker open to show a matching button-up and loose gray jeans pressed neatly in unison with the polished black trainers, and seemed skittish about his surroundings. Both hands were covered by black clothed fingerless gloves, similar to those Mick found a likeness for, and couldn't keep still. What caught Beth's attention about them wasn't the twist of one hand in short blond hair cut inches from his scalp as he looked around the gym with nervously wide hazel eyes, or the way the other pulled at a wayward string on the bottom of his jacket absentmindedly. It was the fact that he had a missing middle digit in each hand, the cloth barely covered the few centimeters of the remnants and his wedding ring on his left hand. He didn't seem bothered by their absence as his nerves manifested themselves in activeness Beth had only seen in Mick.

Beside him was a woman Beth assumed was his wife. She was just as tall and thin as her husband, her own turquoise windbreaker zipped as if it had been windy in Ireland when they left and she never bothered to change once the plane landed. Her skinny jeans were old and fading at the cuffs, long dark hair pulled tight to dangle over her shoulder, and the makeup she wore wasn't too much or too little. She was smiling as she chatted with Flores and shook hands with the older woman, the gleam of light on sky blue painted nails and diamond ring on her hands made her seem younger. The short handled leather purse over her shoulder contrasted the three other suitcases on the floor behind her, all of which were tagged from the airport as well.

"Prophet! Beth!" Cooper exclaimed with a wave of his hand once he saw his teammates. The action seemed to startle the other man, who looked towards them and froze his hands. "James, Sabrina, these are my teammates I was telling you about. Beth and Prophet, this is James and Sabrina Mills. Also know as James and Sabrina Atkins." He introduced with a grin.

Sabrina offered her hand to the agents in a show of courtesy. "Pleasure, agents. We've heard quite a bit about you." Her English accent was thick and sincere, completely opposite to what Beth read beneath it. There was an unspoken worry in her gray-blue eyes, something she didn't allow to the surface, and Beth thought it was due to her husband and the case they offered their assistance with. Despite her husband's clear dislike for a squirming Nikola in Beth's arms, Sabrina seemed to find Nikola adorable as she silently asked for permission to scrub the kitten's head.

James looked at Prophet's offered hand with a distrustful expression, making no indication to accept. Once Prophet retracted with an awkward wave of the hand in dismissal as his smile faded, James forced his hand away from his hair and clasped both behind his back. "We're here to help with the case. I'm told that Rawson and Agent LaSalle are away for the next several days, and Mister Cooper doesn't want this information given to them just yet." His own English bravado held a faint Irish tinge to it, stern and commanding but not entirely convinced that the people around him could be trusted.

Beth had seen it in people with severe PTSD before. People who never once stopped being hyperaware of their surroundings and those around them because they couldn't find reason to. And there was no doubt in her mind that James suffered from severe PTSD that was truly no match for Mick's moderate symptoms.

"Of course, the office is this way." Flores replied as she motioned towards the other set of stairs.

Beth didn't vocalize her anxiety simply because she didn't know how. She didn't know why she was hesitant to follow her teammates and the couple towards the office. Or why she felt uneasy about trusting the couple in general. For lack of a better explanation, she just had a terrible feeling about everything. More over than others, she didn't think the Mills/Atkins couple could be trusted. Regardless of what Cooper thought.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back! This took longer than expected and I apologize for that. I have no excuse other than it just took a while.  
There's actually a lot going on this chapter as far as character development. You find that Flores does have a son and the terms of which aren't exactly good. Who she was arguing with and why will come in later during the story. Prophet's use of the laser pointer for Nikola was cute and I thought that entire scene was fun to write. The mention of Mick's dislike for social networking and Beth's impersonation of his accent was funny. As was the idea of Gina getting Mick something with _Mickey Mouse _on it. The 1920s and 1930s _Mickey Mouse_…yes, I have an obsession with _Mickey Mouse _from the early to mid 1900s… Anyways, I digress. The thought that they may have been looking in the wrong direction as far as the case brings us back to the main mystery plot. What happened to the CIA operative tailing Prophet was funny and I might write that in more detail for a one-shot later. It also pissed her off, and I'm sure that will come in later with Carson Hall too. The introduction of James and Sabrina was critical to the entire storyline. As is the tension from Beth because she thinks something isn't right about them. I don't want to say too much more because I don't want to ruin it. But I will say that one of them has an ulterior motive for agreeing to help Cooper.  
Now, I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? No one likes review withdrawal. Hint hint… A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! You guys are awesome!


	6. It's All Too Familiar

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 6 It's All Too Familiar

When I was a child, during the year my family and I lived in Jacksonville Florida, I became enamored with a particular restaurant called _Lady Merchant's Family Seafood. _Perhaps that sounds strange, and at the time I probably wouldn't have argued. I knew it was an odd addiction, almost a love affair, really. But something about the beach side restaurant was enticing.

The atmosphere was positive and joyful, intoxicating and fun. Themes changed from pirates to aquatic marine animals to spooky sea legends with the passing seasons. Waitresses and waiters in costumes served the children and families with themed food and drinks. Lack of windows allowed for natural sunlight and a breathtaking view of the nearby ocean. Music was themed as well, catchy enough to bring a smile to any child's face. The interior often changed with the themes, but they always had tanks of live fish for the children to watch in fascination. Sometimes the fish were unique goldfish. Other times, depending on the occasion, they were exotic saltwater species that required permits for their care. Personally, I was always fond of the various types of clown fish and angelfish.

It was a family restaurant, but the upper floor was strictly set for couples that preferred alcoholic drinks and a more adult menu. There was a more proper setting to it, where the waitresses and waiters were less concerned with making the children smile and more focused on delivering delicious food. It was themed in unison with the lower floor as well, only minor differences that made it seem more pointed for a mature audience. One of my favorite aspects about it, seeing as I had seen it once when I drifted away from my mother and aunt out of curiosity, was that the bar itself was an aquarium. It was a massive bulletproof glass home for the fish, stretching from one end to the other and filled with careless colorful fish swimming between vibrant reefs and plants.

There was a third floor, a roof actually, that was supposed to be reservation only. But I had never seen it. It was said to have a view of the ocean that was even better than the lower floors, with the occasional beach bird flying up to snag a piece of shrimp or fish.

The food was incredible, the people were friendly, the restaurant itself was amazing, so it was no wonder how it lasted through the years of horrible economy. Of course, it helped that the owner was considered a grandmother to the community. Lucie Merchant was, from what I briefly remembered, an immigrant from somewhere in the UK that opened the business with her family more than forty years ago. At the time I always assumed she originated from somewhere in southern England because of her accent. She adored the children, dressing in costume herself and telling stories to the children while they waited for their food. I wasn't sure what happened to her, or if she was even still alive.

After so many years of being away, I couldn't help but think that something about it had changed. The young tend to have a different perspective. Their innocence paints the world in a better light. Meaning when we grow older, places and things once thought spectacular had a disappointing tendency to be vastly different. It's a sad thought, one that I didn't care to ponder for very long, but it's unfortunately true.

When my father insisted that Mick and I meet with the Sykes family, I didn't anticipate that he meant at a restaurant. Honestly, my first impression was something along the lines of at a local golf course, or even the grounds my sister's wedding was going to take place on.

The Sykes family was more sophisticated, more wealthy and known in the Florida state government, than my own family. Which is a bit hard to comprehend, I know. They had money to burn on anything and everything they could ever want, and chose to portray it by paying for better than half of the upcoming wedding. Keith was their oldest son, their other two were twins that were the most obnoxious people I had ever met, and therefore spoiled with whatever he desired through life. I was willing to wager that his position as an Air Force Pilot was bought along with everything else. So the idea that we were going to meet somewhere more…_elite_…was completely justifiable.

But for whatever reason, my father chose a restaurant I hadn't stepped foot in since I was a young teenager. There had to be a reason because my father simply didn't just _do_ things without one. Yes, he didn't approve of Mick because the sniper was a ridiculous flirt towards me. And he didn't appreciate the fact that I had tried to avoid our family reunion and Ariels' wedding. However, he seemed to be more lenient than I imaged. Something oddly close to the idea of making amends for his absence throughout my life. Perhaps it was the presence of my mother that calmed him. Or he truly was _trying._

If that were true, then he still had a long ways to go.

"I thought ya said the owner was from southern England." Mick drew my attention as we left the parking lot across the street from the restaurant. His voice was kept low, accent slightly thicker than before, as he kept an even pace beside me and several steps behind my parents. Hands stuffed in his jacket pockets fumbled with something absentmindedly, the nervousness about a new place and large crowd creeping into his stiff posture, and I had the bizarre desire to wrap my arm around his own because I knew it always calmed him.

Because the rear of the two story sea blue and sandy white painted building sat on stilts placed in the sands of the beach behind it, the ramp was dusted in sand and distinguishable footprints. Lack of windows hinted to a long waiting line just past the glass hand painted door. Considering it had taken us fifteen minutes to find a decent parking space, getting a table was probably going to take a while. The outdoor decorations were familiar and I couldn't help but grin at them, the fake nets of crabs in corners and even the painted vibrant fish hand carved into the wood in various places. Aside from all of that, the flags raised high on metal poles near the ramp justified Mick's curious question.

Frowning slightly, I realized why he seemed a bit confused by them. One was an American flag, seeing as it was rumored that the owner married into an American family after her husband died. Another was the Florida state flag to show respect for the locals. But the other two were not even close to what I remembered. Both held a background of white and green, both with a red dragon, but the position of the dragons were different. One appeared to be the standard Welsh flag while the other was probably from one of the major cities.

Why I didn't think of that sooner, I wasn't sure. I was young when I last stepped foot in the building, so at the time I probably didn't even recognize it for what it was.

"I always thought she was." I answered Mick with a shrug. The purse over my shoulder shifted and I readjusted it without a second thought, then hooked my arm around his comfortably. He noticeably relaxed after a few moments. Crowds had never been his forte because there were too many people. It was impossible to account for every variable when he couldn't even hear himself talking with someone less than two feet away.

The smell of saltwater from the nearby ocean, the sand beneath our shoes and the sight of locals on the beach behind the restaurant reinforced the idea that we were actually on vacation. A gentle breeze and the overhead dim clouds suggested an afternoon storm, which wasn't unusual for the area, and the temperature seemed to heighten as the afternoon wore on. There wasn't a case to distract us. Just relaxation with the sun and surf and sand. At least, as much relaxation as there could be when my family decided to have a reunion _and_ a wedding within the same month.

"That's a Cardiff flag." Mick whispered as we approached the ramp, moving aside as a large family of eight headed for the parking lot. There were six children, all ranging from possibly fifteen to five, with face paint of beautiful fish and colorful paper pirate hats. At least that hadn't changed.

"This just keeps getting better, doesn't it." I retorted with a squeeze of his arm and a grin. He seemed just as excited to see the interior as I was, especially after seeing the flags. Actually, he seemed excited about nearly everything concerning our vacation. The beach, the food, the shopping, the promised trip to _Downtown Disney_ later in the week, he was honestly looking forward to all of it. I wasn't sure if that was caused by the fact that he hadn't been to the coast since he was a child when his parents were still alive, or because he was with me and we didn't have a pressing serial murder case that needed to be solved immediately.

He wasn't, however, keen on attending the wedding and neither was I. So maybe we could have snuck out and enjoyed some time on the beach during the service…

Mick nodded in agreement as we climbed the ramp, boots slipping on the sandy wood just enough for me to latch onto his arm tighter. "Ya know darling, when we're done with lunch we should find a place that sells swim attire. I hate to admit it, but I sadly don't own any swim trunks. And I'd love to take a dip in the ocean later this evening with you." His whispered flirting trailed off as my father shot him a warning glare and held the door open for us to enter behind my mother. Of course we had to stop by a clothing store later. He needed some decent shorts and tee shorts that weren't littered with holes and frayed at the ends, as well as sandals because sand in boots or trainers is not pleasant. I also needed a few new sets of summer clothing appropriate for the beach. But I could understand what he was hinting at by his toothy grin and wagging eyebrows.

The interior was dimmed save for the natural light, and judging by marine animal decorations, it hadn't changed too drastically since my last visit. Although it did seem horrendously busier. Families could be heard in the various dinning rooms over the music. Children were laughing as what sounded like one of the waiters reenacted a story with someone else. The staff were dressed in pirate costumes that appeared to come from a theater, the men in various vests with long haired wigs and beards to compliment and cloth pirate hats with the occasional stitched parrot sitting on their shoulder, the women in similar attire except the fake hair. A few smaller aquariums caught my eye in the corners where children in wait for their tables with their families were poking the glass and watching the exotic fish in wonderment.

"As tempting as that sounds, I don't think that will happen. Although I might follow you onto the beach to make sure you don't drown." I replied with a coy grin. Knowing his tendency to find trouble in the most unpredictable places, I wasn't entirely joking.

Mick shrugged, cocking his head to the side to look at me. "I'm not going to drown. Believe it or not, I'm quite good at swimming. Longest course I've ran was six miles in an hour and a half. That was just one of the tests we went through in Sandhurst. Got a medal for it because I was faster than anyone else in the group. And it helped put me under the radar for the SAS. Liam was competing for the same thing, but I kicked his ass by five minutes. He used to make fish jokes at my expense that were _really _bad because he didn't like losing…" He ceased rambling at the mention of his foster brother, gloating expression failing for a split second.

Discussing his training in Sandhurst was just as restricted as his previous missions. But sometimes he let a few facts slip because they were seemingly insignificant. Likewise, he only mentioned family to Cooper or I when he was comfortable around us. The busy atmosphere of a restaurant may not have been the best place for his anxiety, but he trusted me enough to feel safe. Meaning I could have gotten him to say almost anything.

I unhooked my arm from his as my parents disappeared into the crowd of people to speak with one of the staff. The goal was to distract him from the thought of his brother. So I leaned close with a forced flirting smile and whispered in his ear, "Okay, if you think you're such a great swimmer, and you ask really _nicely, _I might just agree to let you pick which swimsuit I wear."

When I pulled away and looked around to make sure no one else heard that, particularly my father because I knew how much the older man didn't like Mick flirting with me in his presence, I barely concealed a revengeful laugh at his stunned expression. He gaped at me with wide blinking eyes, like he couldn't believe what came out of my mouth, swallowing several times as a red hue started to crawl up his neck. It was the appearance of a teenager that had just been told something _arousing _by their girlfriend unexpectedly, and he fell for it in a heartbeat. Which contradicted his once perceived self controlled mentality, really. My words were probably no better. But getting that reaction in public was my revenge for his immature behavior earlier that morning. And it succeeded in pulling his thoughts from his brother.

No, I honestly didn't have any intention of letting him choose the swimsuit I was going to wear on the beach. But the reaction to the thought was priceless.

Unfortunately the buzz of his cell phone in his jacket pocket brought him to his senses rather quickly. He fumbled with it in his pocket, nearly dropping it as he unlocked the touch screen with unsteady fingers. I caught a quick glance at the number flashing on the screen, amused grin disappearing when I realized that the first several digits were indicative of someone in England but definitely didn't belong to his sister or his foster parents. Whoever it was didn't have a note in his address list either, despite the fact that it was a more expensive disposable phone and he did dare to add a few crucial contacts, and I was beginning to think that it was one of his previous one-night-stands by the way he grimaced once he recognized the numbers. He didn't answer immediately. Instead he looked between me and the phone, as if trying to decide if answering was going to be worth it.

"I really should take this…" He mumbled with a quick wave of the devise in emphasis. The scabbed scratches on his hand from the night before flexed with the muscles but he didn't pay it any attention.

"It better not be work related." I replied sternly as he took a step back and almost bumped into a larger man that didn't seem very forgiving. Cooper and Beth and Prophet were handling our caseload in DC. Mick and I were on _vacation_. Meaning no work phone calls. Whether it was from his bosses in the British SAS or Interpol or Fickler himself.

He righted himself with a mumbled apology to the man behind him and twisted the phone in his hand nervously, forcing a grin I knew all too well. "Of course it isn't, darling. Just an old friend checking in. I've really got to take it though. Order me something to drink and I'll be there in a few minutes. I'll just call Coop while I'm at it to check in since it's past noon. Got to make sure Prophet and Beth aren't feeding Nikola junk food, eh." He answered as he backed up to the door, pushing at the handle with his elbows. At my hesitant nod, he disappeared behind the glass doors and back outside, bustling down the ramp and towards a less populated area before he vanished from my sight.

Some rational, logical, part of me knew in an instant that he was lying. Well, he wasn't actually _lying_ about the call originating from an old friend and calling Cooper as we promised. But they weren't simply calling for a cordial hello. Otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to answer it in such a hurry. It was almost as if he was expecting the call. And if my imagination was correct, and I hoped it wasn't, then that meant it had something to do with the real reason behind his willingness to accompany me to a family reunion and wedding. Something regarding work, like the Rais case.

The biggest problem with that theory was I didn't have anything remotely similar to proof. Accusing him of using me without an actual reason known would have been the equivalent of slapping him in the face. He seemed so happy with me, flirting like we used to with little visible signs from his PTSD, although he was horribly intimidated by my father, but he was so much better than I had seen in quite a long time and I didn't have the heart to change that.

So all I could do was wait and see if I was correct in any way. With the way our lives had been turned up-side-down by our last major case and the knowledge that it could have happened again at any time, my instincts were telling me that I was right in the end. Some part of me just didn't want to admit it. Admitting that he was lying, that he was still working a case he _promised_ to leave for ten days, only made everything seem worse. Maybe it was selfish and ignorant to deny such obviousness, but what else could I do?

Waiting for him to understand the difference between vacation time and work was staggering though. His stubbornness was unprecedented to anything else I had ever seen from him. If he was working the Rais case behind my back, I was never going to find the proof. At least not until something drug it to the surface. And I didn't think I had the patience for that.

* * *

The interior of the restaurant had been buzzing with families enjoying the festivities and food. It was loud and crowded, full of impatient children and parents who were trying to have a decent lunch. Realistically, it was no wonder why Mick had to answer his cell phone outside. The music wasn't annoyingly abundant, but over the constant voices and background noises everything was simply too much. Twenty minutes of waiting for our table nearly gave me a headache and the overwhelming desire to just step outside for some fresh air.

As we were led towards a set of painted glass double doors stationed on the second floor and towards the back, I realized that the noises had probably always been a feature of the restaurant. In my youth I just didn't notice it. Just as well, I didn't know that the roof had been closed for some time. Instead they built a large and rather stunning covered balcony on the back to replace the credited beach view. It wasn't visible from the parking lot across the street or the front of the building. Meaning it was secluded enough to be relaxing without the drowning noises of the interior.

Upon first glance, aside from my sister and her fiancé and his parents seated at a long white clothed with matching padded chairs that seemed to have various types of sea creatures etched in the wood, the balcony was beautiful. The floor and protective railing just below chest level was a sandy color that gave the illusion of actually sitting on the beach. Unlike the interior, there were no playful decorations. Just elegantly carved sea animals in the wood. The rush of brisk beach air was welcome, as was the sun pouring through the open windows. Once the doors closed behind the waiter, the background noises diminished into nothing more than muffled distant sound.

"Dean, Cecelia, it's been a while." Byron Sykes greeted as he rose from his seat on the far end of the table. He resembled the typical impression of a wealthy business man in his fifties, posture slightly shorter than myself but not exactly thin or overweight. His suit was a pristine light gray with the jacket draped over the back of the chair behind him, the off white button shirt wrinkled with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows. Short trimmed hair represented his age, dark brunette strands turned gray. He was an outlandishly controlling man, more so than my father or even Mick, so I had never really liked him at all.

Sandra Sykes rose from her own seat opposite him and offered a welcoming smile. I had only met her once, during a visit when Ariel and Keith started dating, and I distinctly remembered her as more lenient of the two. Sandra, in contrast to her husband of a little over thirty years, was the negotiator. Dressed in a vibrant lavender summer dress with matching sandals and expensive jewelry, she gave the appearance of a wealthy stay-at-home mother despite her age masked by the makeup. Obviously she had dyed her long hair into a crisp jet black, tied loosely into a sort of halve bun with a white gem pin. Unlike her husband, she seemed to be willing to enjoy her vacation with her son and soon to be daughter.

Business could wait.

Ariel and Keith shared a quick look of curiosity between each other as they must have realized that it was just the three of us for the time being. Keith reminded me of Mick in some fashion. He was average height and weight for someone his age of twenty eight, brunette hair cut to the standard military regulation, dressed in jeans and a dark blue suit jacket over an even lighter blue button up, and a pleased expression that would have made Ariel smack him as hazel eyes swept over me. If Mick had seen it, the Air Force pilot would have probably gotten a fork to his eyes.

It was a bit baffling because Ariel and I were similar as far as how we looked. I had always been taller, more fond of jeans and blouses and sneakers than her favored summer dresses and skirt. The dress she wore at the time was verging on inappropriate, the thin gray material clung tight and cut low with matching black heels. Her dirty blond hair had been cut to shoulder length and appeared damp, as if she had been swimming before she was drafted to attend the lunch. Realistically, the differences were minor outwardly. But Keith had chosen to marry Ariel. So what was the reason behind his stare?

Ariel, because she was in _love_ with him, didn't see the action for what it truly was. That was the difference between us. She may have been intellectually book smart, but the notions of people went over her head. Hence why she was given a position at the White Collar Units rather than solving serial murder cases.

After a quick cordial greeting we took our seats. I made sure to take the second to last seat, reserving the next seat on the end for Mick once he finally decided to join us. My mother sat on the opposite side beside Keith, my father beside Ariel. Our orders for the drinks were given to the waiter, strawberry lemonade for myself and a root beer for Mick, and the menus were discussed for a few minutes while we waited.

"So, where's this other guy you were supposedly bringing along?" Ariel questioned after a few minutes, placing the menu on the table in front of her and folding her hands together, fingers rolling the rather impressive diamond engagement ring on her finger as she fixed me with a determined expression.

I glanced at the empty seat beside me, sighing heavily as I pondered a decent response. Mick had been gone for thirty minutes, supposedly talking to an _old friend_ and checking on Nikola and our other teammates back in DC. I could understand if he was talking with one of his foster parents or Jenna. His sister had a tendency to spend more than hour talking with him on the phone every morning about anything. But someone else, someone not necessarily important to our vacation, was frustrating. As was the fact that he was lying to me in some fashion and I couldn't do a damned thing about it.

So I fussed with the edges of the laminated menu as I answered with a shrug, "He should be here any minute now. There was a phone call he had to take…"

"Work related?" My father interrupted curiously, keeping his eyes on the menu as he mutely debated his choice for lunch.

"Maybe. He didn't tell me."

"Honey, you're a lot more perceptive than that." My mother added as she gestured to a dish on the menu pointedly. "And there's a couples dish. He likes fried battered fish and chips and shrimp, right?"

I sank back in the seat and continued my mindless abuse of the menu, finding the section my mother was pointing out quickly. Truthfully, fish and chips were his favorite food. Beth and Prophet teased him for it, claiming that he was just like every other traditional British man when it came to his like and dislikes. I often questioned if he shouldn't have chosen a less greasy love because it wasn't healthy for him. Then again, takeout and beer or pizza every night wasn't any better either.

But I knew my mother had other intentions for mentioning the food. It was a distraction, a way for me to speak without thought for a brief moment, and I wasn't blind to her methods. I did live with her for eighteen years, and I admittedly inherited her perceptive nature and my father's stubbornness.

"Yes he does, and the call is probably nothing to worry about." I answered, catching Keith's gaze on me again. Of course, I couldn't actually bring myself to believe that it was merely a coincidence.

"So he's a workaholic?" Ariel asked with a brief glance at her fiancé, her curious expression falling into a frown as he dropped his gaze to the menu in his hands. Maybe it was just my own hyper observances, but she didn't seem to want to bring his behavior to light just yet. If I were her and my fiancé did something like that, I would have embarrassed the hell out of him to make sure he knew that it wasn't going to be tolerated. But that was just another personality difference between my younger sister and I. She was almost incapable of rejection. It was a strange quirk, one that had gotten less prominent as she grew older, and I couldn't help but feel that it was part of a deeper personality flaw.

"Not necessarily. We were just working on a very important case for the past few months and he's having a hard time putting it down for the next ten days. You know how it is with high profile cases." I replied as nonchalantly as possible. Telling them, or anyone else outside of my direct Red Cell team, about the Rais case wasn't going to happen. It was highly classified for a damned good reason. The less people who knew about our team still working on it after we were ordered not to, the better and safer it was for everyone.

Ariel nodded in understanding and leaned back in her seat, her attention fixed on Keith for several moments. We may not have always seen eye-to-eye, but I could read her like an open book at times. She was simple, a far cry from the serial killers I profiled on a daily basis, so I knew what that look of internal debate on her features meant. Keith was probably going to sleep on the couch until their wedding night if he continued his previous actions so blatantly. She narrowed her eyes and chewed on her bottom lip, as if she was going to comment on the matter in some discrete manner.

The sudden onslaught of interior voices, however, stopped her entirely. She straightened, just as I did, when the double doors opened to reveal the waiter, Mick, and an older woman I recognized from memory as Lucie Merchant. The waiter stood aside to let them pass, then started removing the glasses containing our drinks from the circular wooden tray balanced impressively on his forearm.

Lucie Merchant had changed drastically in comparison to what I remembered. She looked somewhat haggard in the red and brown pirate costume, heavy set and curly bleach blond hair tousled as if she really was playing the part of her costume in some professional theater. From my estimate, she was in her eighties. The wrinkles were masked with makeup to some degree but not entirely. And despite the fact that she shuffled on the floor rather than walked because one leg had a very prominent limp, she was grinning happily.

Mick kept an even pace beside her, the two speaking in a low tone I could barely hear. His hands were stuffed in his jacket pocket again but he didn't appear to mind the intense crowd once he was on the balcony. An expression of intrigue and joy mounted on his features, and I had a feeling that they had been talking in Welsh from the moment she agreed to show him where our table was located.

Ariel's eyes widened at the sight of the sniper, as if she wasn't expecting someone so…_attractive_…to accompany me to the wedding. It was unsettling, the way she eyed him, and I shifted in the chair to place my back to her in order to stop myself from voicing my sudden discomfort.

He sidestepped the waiter and took his seat beside me, sitting on the edge as he offered his hand to the older woman in thanks. What was said as she shook it warmly, I didn't know. It made him chuckle and nod though, something I found myself grinning at fondly. After a few seconds he realized that everyone else was staring in curiosity, glancing at us as if realization was amusing. How he was able to switch between languages fluently, I found fascinating. Especially when he alternated between English and Welsh as if they were the same language.

Lucie realized the same thing as the waiter watched her expectantly. She drew a deep breath and continued in English with a welcoming tone towards my mother. "Misses LaSalle! It's been ages since I've seen you and your family here. What's the occasion?" Her accent was as thick as Mick's, but less slang and more proper.

"I'm getting married on the twelfth." Ariel answered excitedly, reaching forward to grasp Keith's hand.

The older woman's eyes lit up at the words, her grin widening as she clapped her hands and rocked on the balls of her boots. "That's wonderful! A beachfront wedding then? You know, my first husband and I were married on Three Cliffs Bay in Swansea so many years ago. It's a _lovely _place. Do you already have the cake and catering chosen?"

Byron stiffened, as if he thought the kind old woman was trying to make a proposition to cater the wedding, and shook his head sternly. "Yes we have." He responded quickly, shooting her a somewhat annoyed glare.

Realistically, she wasn't trying to improve her business by catering a wedding. That much was obvious by the way she sounded genuinely excited to see us again. She and my mother had become good friends when we lived in the area and frequented the restaurant. For Ariel and I, she was a surrogate grandmother of sorts and we, or at least I did, thought she was the most inspiring person we had ever met. So for Byron to be so cross towards her was almost offensive.

Lucie didn't give his impatient tone any recognition though. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. "Well, I would be more than happy to cater the entire wedding for free if you'd like. The restaurant is doing so well that I think we can afford to give away a few thousand for a worthy cause. And, not to brag or anything, I personally make all of the deserts from scratch every morning. The fish and chips are our signature dish as well."

Ariel grasped Keith's hand tighter as if that gave her the courage to verbalize her own decision, turning to Byron. "I like that idea better than the professional catering company you hired. It's more personal and sincere. Besides, we can use the extra money towards our honeymoon in Hawaii before Keith ships out to Afghanistan in July."

Byron blinked at her in disbelief, brow furrowing as he started to argue. It wasn't his place to argue though.

Ariel and Keith were getting married, meaning all wedding designs were supposed to be their ideas. The cake, the colors, the location, all of the finer details had to be chosen by them as a couple. It was their first big decision together, a hint of what their life was going to be like once they were married. A little help was always appreciated. But everything else had to prove that they could really live together in harmony based on every decision made as a couple.

My mother often said that was how she and my father survived the rocky years. She always thought back to their wedding day, to how they planned everything themselves so flawlessly, and that made her realize that no matter what happened, she could never leave him.

If Ariel and Keith's marriage was going to last as long as my parents, they had to come to that same realization.

Keith, for all of his uncomfortable stares at me, really did love her. He proved it by the way he stood up to his father, lacing his fingers with Ariel's as he stated, "Anything she wants dad. I don't give a damn about the costs or reputation."

When neither Byron or Sandra argued, Lucie clasped her hands together and nodded at the waiter pointedly. "Stephan will take your orders. I'll just go get the necessary paperwork and then we can start planning." She offered one last grin before she headed for the double doors, eyes lingering on Mick for a moment longer than the rest of us. "Welcome back. I hope you all enjoy the meal. I'll be back with a special desert once you're finished."

I watched her leave with a quick snap of the double doors behind her, unable to stop myself from grinning at the familiarity of it all. I'll admit that some portion of me was afraid about the changes made to the restaurant. Somehow I feared that Lucie Merchant was gone and the same wondrous place I loved went with her. But after talking with her, after realizing that it was still the same place my family and I could ever really agree on, that thought seemed ridiculous. Some things had changed because everything changes eventually. For the most part, it was still what I remembered.

Mick turned back in his seat to sip at his root beer, then gave a toothy grin in my direction. He lowered his voice as my father started to order for himself, leaning close to whisper in my ear. "I think I like it here. You still up for the swim later?"

I huffed a laugh, temporarily forgetting my frustration at his earlier lie, and replied in the same tone, "Only if you tell me who called you to interrupt our vacation and why."

He mutely pondered that for a few seconds, eyes studying me, before he nodded in agreement. And somehow I knew I was going to regret that.

* * *

Note- People! Hi! I'm back! I know this is horribly late. It took a while to finish. And, in my defense, I've had a nasty cold since Saturday night. This would have been finished last night had I been able to think clearly. I despise the person that gave me their cold… Sharing, in this case, is not appreciated.  
So, there's actually a lot going on in this chapter. The first part centered on the description of the restaurant. I'm proud of that because it is very original. At least, I'm fairly certain it is. It has another purpose in the storyline, I promise. At this point, Gina knew that Mick had another motive for joining her in Florida. The phone call just added to that thought. Aside from introducing Ariel and Keith and his parents, I wanted to introduce Lucy Merchant too. She'll be a very key piece later.  
I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! You guys are awesome!


	7. Lying On The Table

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia is still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 7 Lying On The Table

Beth had seen too many horrendous cases over the years. Sometimes, after years of intelligence gathering and relentless searching, it ended. Other times the files were stacked in a box and put away until something new brought it to the surface again. The few times a tenuous and dangerous case, such as the Rais case, ended, it always ended in tragedy. Someone _always_ died. A painfully slow death or a quick exit that left everyone wondering what the _hell_ just happened. It was always the same outcome.

Therefore Beth didn't _want_ to dig into the case any further.

She knew the chances of finding Rais were slim, and constantly tempting fate was essentially insanity. Every ounce of evidence against the man was circumstantial. No physical proof that he even existed was available. At least not in the records Cooper and Mick had compiled over the years. There were personal accounts by those who had lived to speak of him and grainy photos that looked to be taken from an old dusty camera years ago, and mentions in nearly redacted Interpol files. In which Beth could only assume that Mick had stolen some time ago because she couldn't image that his superiors gave him access to such a secretive case. But nothing concrete.

Until Nina Surkov came into the picture. And then things started to turn from an old cold case that was probably never going to be solved, to an open investigation done off the records and in the shadows of standards and solely conducted by Sam Cooper himself.

Beth internally belittled herself for not speaking against it. Having someone who could help with the case was a brilliant idea…if he didn't have severe PTSD because he was one of the unfortunate men who had been tortured at Rais' hand. She wanted Rais to be found and prosecuted and maybe, just _maybe_, it would have helped Mick to move on and live a normal life again. As close to normalcy as possible. But the man was a ghost in the midst of a surreal conspiracy. Like something from a fictional _New York Times Best Seller_ novel. How could they find him with almost no absolute data, the CIA breathing down their necks which was sure to attract several other worldwide government agencies trying to hide the case, and when their only living witnesses suffered from moderate to severe PTSD that deluded memories of the account exactly?

They had to start with Nina Surkov. She was the adopted daughter of Rais. His protégé, someone he taught to kill and survive like a perfect soldier from the young age of ten, a direct link to his operation seeing as she was one of his lead assassins. If she was even still alive after her cover was blown in Alaska at the end of December. They had to _find_ her.

And whoever the finger sent to the office months ago belong to. As well as why one of the guarding FBI agents betrayed his country by aiding the man who delivered the box in his escape.

Seated at the conference table, Beth studied the piles of disorganized photos and paperwork in front of her with a troubled expression. The shades had been drawn closed tightly before the copious amount of evidence was spread on the conference table by Cooper. Mainly because they were unwilling to risk the CIA or someone else peering inside with a scope of some kind and realizing just how much they had gathered pertaining to Rais. Especially since they were technically not allowed to have anything. Thanks to a surprisingly genius frequency scrambler device crafted by Mick, the room felt somewhat secure enough to discuss the case openly.

They had all been understandably paranoid about someone placing electronic listening devices in the building to spy on them. Mick's solution two months prior was a metal box resembling a handmade bulky radio the size of a milk crate. He bragged about constructing it from various parts he found at the local scrap yard whilst instructing them on how it operated. And it did work, rather too well at times, by canceling any electronic signal within a fifty foot radius. That included wireless communications such as internet and cell phones. The only setback was the heat it emitted. Meaning it was limited as far as time. The consequences of leaving it on for more than an hour at a time was a high pitch wail that shattered glass and smoke that rolled from the bottom as if an internal component started a fire.

Beth drilled the end of the eraser attached to her mechanical pencil just under her bottom lip, too lost in the rather dismaying details before her to speak. There was simply a lot to process, and she was still trying to wrap her mind around every detail. Despite the fact that she had seen the details to the Rais case multiple times since Cooper started holding the meetings in his loft several times a week after the base was attacked.

Which didn't make seeing the photographic evidence of Mick's torture, the toxicology reports giving an assumed summery of which drugs had been used to induce what she could only imagine was horrific hallucinations and the hand drawn sketched recollections of what Rais looked like, any easier.

Needless to say, she had no intentions of ever teasing Mick's strange personality quirks again. At least not those psychologically linked to what she was reading.

The room remained eerily silent for several minutes. There were subconscious noises, of course. Distant cars roaring on the street outside. Nikola's small claws scratched into the floor as he enthusiastically played with his favorite toy mice near the window sills. Paper shuffled as Prophet and Flores and James pondered over evidence wordlessly. James mindlessly tapped a pen against the side of the table as his PTSD refused to let him look at any of the gruesome photos. Prophet's faint humming was off tune and without a melody but he didn't seem to care. No one dared to speak, to verbally acknowledge what they were reading, and the tension was going to drive Beth mad.

So when Cooper returned to the conference room with their latest pieces of evidence in a small cardboard box and another case file that undoubtedly had been concealed in the safe behind his desk, Sabrina Mills quick on his heels after a private five minute conversation in his office to voice her concerns about her husband working with them, Beth almost jumped in excitement.

"Everyone ready to begin?" Cooper asked as he stood at the end of the table pointedly, commanding and stern in the same fashion whenever a pressing case was assigned. It was as if he was directing a military team rather than a Red Cell sometimes. And no one bothered to question the action because it was always well received. It meant he was the leader, even if his current expression was slightly uneasy and nervous beneath it all. The box was set on the table in front of him, shoving the papers out of his way and towards Prophet and Flores on either side of him, and the case file was flipped open in his hands as a frown creased his dark features.

Instead of reading the new information, he watched Sabrina sit between James and Prophet curiously. The way she talked to her husband in a hushed whisper, gentle and coaxing as her hand stopped his rapid tapping of his pen, appeared to be the best thing for him. _She_ was the best person for him. Probably the only person he trusted enough to lay a finger on him without responding in brutal self defense. Honestly, it reminded Beth of how Gina talked to Mick when he was stressed. It was the same level of sincerity and adoration, no sympathy per say but definitely enough patience and rationality to make him see common sense.

"James, if you want to step outside for a few minutes…" Cooper's concerned statement trailed off as James shook his head adamantly.

"No, it's fine." He breathed with a heavy sigh and pushed himself back against the padded chair. But the sharp tone to his English accent implied that it wasn't _fine_ at all. "Go on."

Cooper hesitated for a moment, eyes trailing to Prophet and Flores before finally settling on Beth. Then he gave a curt nod and drew his attention to the file in hand. "What we know about the murder here back in December so far isn't much. The traitor was identified as Eric Myers. A thirty nine year old agent from Wisconsin that had been working for the FBI for just over ten years. His wife was killed in a car accident in 2008, and afterwards his life spiraled. He lost his home and had to move himself and his two children into an apartment building in 2010. The FBI offered to give him housing for his services near Quantico, but he refused. In July of 2011 he received a sizable sum of money registered to a Cayman Islands account under his wife's maiden name. Because we can't get into the account legally and I don't want to risk raising any more flags in the CIA, I can only imagine that the source has remained anonymous and untraceable. That money was used to send his children to a private school in Alexandria, Virginia. They stayed at the school from October of 2011 to January 2012. At which point Director Fickler had them moved to witness protection. They haven't said anything about their father, and we can't question them without risking their new identities. Fickler was able to interview them and said that the daughter seemed to know something. But she's too afraid to talk."

"And the supposed motivation for murdering his fellow teammates and aiding a criminal is…" James questioned as he propped his chin on the back of folded gloved hands, elbows perched on the table heavily and eyes locked on the older man expectantly. He didn't notice Beth's staring at the missing middle digit on each hand, concealed by the gloves but painstakingly obvious, and she was minutely glad for that.

Because she could only imagine what it felt like to have ones fingers sawed off. And even then, her imagination probably would never give an accurate picture.

"Money, power, blackmail, safety for himself or his family. It could be anything." Prophet answered with a shrug. He leaned back in his chair and rocked it back and forth for a few moments in thought, propping a forensic report in his lap as he crossed his leg over his knee and stuffed his hands behind his head. "People who knew him said that he had been distant since his wife was killed. Fickler reached out to extended family in Colorado and Nevada and they had no idea what was going on. As far they knew, Myers was grieving the loss of his wife and his life took a turn for the worst because of it. He hadn't been working any risky cases lately, and the last he worked was against an uprising drug cartel in California back in March of last year. But they only had about a dozen guys in the entire operation and they died in the shootout when the team tried to arrest them. So we're stuck as far as that lead."

Sabrina shook her head at the words, furrowing her brow in contemplation. "How did he know when to help the other man escape?" She asked, English tone curious as she looked between the agents. Apparently Cooper had already told her as well as James the basics about the case so far. Not the exact details because he didn't trust cell phone conversations lately. But like the rest of Beth's teammates, she knew there was simply too many holes that needed to be filled. So asking the more pressing questions, the questions the Red Cell team didn't necessarily have answers to yet, was a way to focus on the finer details.

It was Beth's turn to respond as she started rubbing the eraser of her pencil against the table edge absentmindedly and glanced at Cooper uneasily. "We don't know. His phone records came up clean and his laptop was never recovered at his office or in his briefcase. We even checked his apartment and the only thing we found was the charger cord and the USB mouse on his desk. It looks like someone was in a hurry to take it, but there was no DNA or fingerprints in the apartment to suggest someone else is responsible. There's no record of purchasing a burner phone and his credit cards and bank account information in the US don't contain any kind of strange transactions. It's possible that he had another account in a different name, like he was using an alias to hide his work, but we can't find it. Penelope has hit a dead end on the cyber trail, without hacking into the Cayman Islands bank account."

James sighed once more, dropping his gaze to the paperwork in front of him and tapping his pointer fingers against his chin. "And you don't have anything in regards to who the man that delivered the finger to the office and escaped is?"

Cooper shook his head as he sat in the chair behind him, rolling it up to the table and pushing the box aside to reply dejectedly, "No, we don't. There was no DNA evidence left behind or fingerprints that match to anything in any of our known databases. I mean, there were a few pieces of hair and skin in the handcuffs used to apprehend him by Fickler, but they didn't give an identity. The description given by Fickler and Penelope and Jenna Rawson didn't give us anything once we ran it through facial recognition software. And as far as surveillance cameras in the area, all traffic cameras and business surveillance within a five mile radius stopped working half an hour before the guy showed up and didn't go back online until thirty minutes after he left. We have no way of knowing which way he originated and which direction he escaped to. DC is a fairly large city, and after thirty minutes he could have made it to the docks and onto a ship or he could have crossed the boarder into one of the surrounding states. Without any idea of what vehicle was used or the direction in which he was headed, there's nothing we can do."

"But what about this assassin you encountered in Alaska? Nina Surkov…" James started to question impatiently, relaxing only when Sabrina's hand found its way onto his shoulder to pull him back in his seat.

"As far as we know, thanks to Fickler's contact in Interpol, Surkov was last seen in Moscow, Russia, on January twenty first. She looked to be alone, but injured from what I can only assume was a bullet to her right shoulder. Either she ran into someone from one of the international agencies that are working the same case, or Rais tried to dispose of her because she became a liability. According to sources in the area, she bought a burner phone with cash under the alias Anya Gavlik. She was staying at a motel just west of the city for about a week. Then she disappeared from their radar. They, _we_, don't know where she is or what she has planned next." Cooper replied fluently. When he stopped to draw a heavy breath, it was as if he was deflating. As if he was admitting defeat. "We've hit too many dead ends. There's almost nothing else we can do that's even remotely sensible."

"Almost nothing." Flores added after a beat. She looked up from the file in her hands and gave a pointed nod at the box Cooper had pushed aside and the file he hadn't read from yet. The evidence report she was reading must have been fascinating because she hadn't bothered to pull her eyes from it during the conversation. Beth knew she was listening by the way she shifted the paper in hands every few minutes. But she hadn't said anything, hadn't even acknowledged how screwed they were on the investigation because they had hit one brick wall after another, and the audacity of it all was wearing on Beth's patience. "There is still one more lead that Rais has not covered. Simply because he wanted us to find it. So the question becomes a matter of if you should follow, or if you should be cautious in case he is leading us into a trap."

Beth was flabbergasted, gaping and staring and trying to understand what the _hell_ she was talking about. Given the similar expression on everyone else's features, except Cooper, she wasn't alone. What they had were details that didn't lead to a damned thing. They knew who the traitor was but no idea as to why he betrayed his country. Whoever the young man that delivered the finger was didn't seem to exist in the world, at least not on any records they could have had access to. And Surkov was in the wind, sort to speak, with absolutely no way of knowing where or what her next move could have been.

So what other piece of evidence were they missing?

"The DNA results for that finger finally came back?"

Prophet's surprised question felt like a slap to the face. It was absurd, ridiculous even, that Beth hadn't considered the one thing given to them by Rais himself. But in her defense, the item had not been any more helpful than the Myers' sealed Cayman Islands bank records. The DNA had taken months to finally verify, if Cooper's lack of eye contact and quick nod was any indication. What the coroner listed about the Caucasian right middle digit, once belonging to a male between thirty and forty with no signs of resistance and well accustomed to hard work that left the skin calloused, described a large portion of the world. Without a positive match, without something that told them who the person was exactly, they would have been at a brick wall again.

Flores was correct though. Rais gave them a piece of damning evidence. In some ways, probably as a rival token. As if he was daring them to solve that next puzzle. He had to have known that they would have gone to any lengths to find who the finger belonged to. Even if their sources were limited. So it was a ploy; a tool to either get them into legal trouble which would have cost them their jobs at the FBI, or to separate them as teammates. More than likely he had both intentions.

The bizarre issue, more than anything concerning Rais at that moment, was why Cooper seemed absolutely reluctant to tell them what was found. His unwillingness to look at anyone else and the fumble of his fingers against the edge of the file in hand gave Beth the very real idea that he was protecting someone. That he had a damned good reason for not telling them.

Regardless of the reason, Beth fixed the older man with a stern expression. "Sam, what aren't you telling us?" She demanded, catching his gaze finally settle on her.

His shoulders sagged slightly as he pulled a report from the file, sighing in defeat as he slid it on the table for everyone else to see. "This is why I wanted Mick out of the office. I was worried what he would do once he finds this."

Beth snatched the paper before Flores, the older woman's fingers brushing against the surface as it slid out of her reach. Then sat back in her chair and frowned heavily, casting a befuddled glare at Cooper. Confusion only worsened as she read the DNA report twice, the second time dragging her finger under every word and percentage number as if that was going to make it more sensible. DNA reports had never been hard to understand before. On cases, the reports were drastically important to identify the unsub based on the DNA he left at the crime scenes.

But the report in her hands didn't make _sense. _It was _impossible _in every way. Perhaps it was a trick or a lie. Something Rais set in play to throw them in the wrong direction. Yet it was in black and white print in front of her. After being analyzed half a dozen times, according to the note at the bottom of the page, the margin for error was nonexistent. Meaning it was real, no many how many times Beth read it in shocked silence and wished it wasn't.

If it wasn't a trick from Rais, if it was _real_, then the DNA in the finger sent from Rais held a thirteen percent confirmed genetic link to Mick Rawson. Which could have only been possible if they were directly related. Not brothers or a father, but a cousin. Someone in the direct family line that Mick never discussed with anyone. And if Fickler and Cooper knew about the results, then the CIA and Interpol and every other international agency hunting Rais were probably going to find the information as well. Consequently, that could have put Mick in more danger if the CIA or Interpol assumed he was in league with a relative working with Rais.

When the subject came to family, Mick had always been distant. Beth remembered when she first learned that Mick had a foster family in London and a sister he had been responsible for since their parents died. At the time she questioned about his other family while on the plane ride home from a case in New Hampshire, why he chose foster care in London rather than living with relatives in Wales. The only thing he would say about the subject was that his other relatives didn't like him or Jenna. They didn't _want_ them. So he had to live with his grandmother in London for a few months before she gave them away to foster care. Every other attempt to gather details about his family since had been like pulling teeth. And even then, all she knew was that his foster brother was a brain damaged catatonic and his sister was a university student in London studying journalism and literature and psychology.

So whoever the cousin was probably hadn't seen or heard from Mick since he was child.

"He came to me a few days ago with an idea I immediately dismissed because it sounded absurd." Cooper broke the tense silence in the room as Prophet leaned across the table and snatched the report form her, flopping back in his seat to read it with a growing expression of dismay, Flores peering over his arm to read as well. He folded his arms over his chest with an exaggerated exhale as he continued, "He was adamant about following through with it, even though I told him that Fickler wouldn't approve. So he went to Fickler directly and asked him to compare his DNA with the finger sent. We finally agreed to just humor him and have the labs run a genetic test. His DNA is already on file so it only took about two days for the results. Fickler got them early this morning, and we were going to tell Mick. But Commander LaSalle showed up to ask if Gina could have time off for her sister's wedding and family reunion, and the idea to have Mick go with them was more of a last minute thing. If he found out that someone from his direct family line has connections to Rais, there won't be anything we can do to stop him from going rogue to get the answers."

Beth chewed her bottom lip in contemplation, still unable to pull her gaze from the older agent. Why Mick chose that particular idea, why he even considered it a possibility, Beth could only imagine. He had been more careful, more paranoid, about the minor details in life lately. They all had, but his was more to an extreme that coincided with secrecy. As if he was hiding something from all of them as best he could. Everyone knew he was keeping something detrimental to the case to himself. For reasons Beth was still unsure of. Yet there was no easy way to question him. Because the moment they cornered him with an accusation of hiding evidence, he would have retaliated with the best lie he could muster. That would have just led them nowhere again.

"Wait, so you convinced Gina's father to agree with Gina dragging Mick with her to Florida?" Prophet interrupted as he passed the paper to James and Sabrina next.

Cooper shrugged faintly as he replied, "Not necessarily. I knew Commander LaSalle can be intimidating which meant Gina wouldn't have been able to refuse going to the reunion and wedding if he really pushed the subject. She doesn't feel comfortable in large family banquets by herself, and with the way she and Mick are practically attached to each other as of late, I just added the idea for Commander LaSalle to be more demanding and intimidating than normal…"

"Which ensured that Gina would take Mick with her." Flores finished with an impressed smirk. "That is quite impressive. They think they were pulled away for a mandatory vacation. In actually, you are trying to preserve as much time with your team as possible before this information forces Mick to separate himself from the rest of them." She profiled without reserve, seemingly without even realizing what she had said, and Beth found herself partially stunned at her boldness. Profiling teammates had always been against the rules Cooper set in place years ago. Although the recent mess consuming them for more than a year now made that difficult to follow. However, profiling Cooper was the equivalent, in Beth's eyes, of verbally fighting with the director the FBI himself. Normally Cooper would have become frustrated or annoyed visibly. But he merely looked uncomfortable as he ground his teeth and nodded in agreement without a word.

Beth knew the two weren't in any kind of relationship, but Cooper showed a great deal of leniency towards her. And for the life of Beth, she couldn't figure out _why_.

James cleared his throat to draw their attention back to the information again, placing the paper on the table as he rubbed his eyes wearily and stated, "So one of Mick's cousins is connected to the Rais operation. Either he's a victim or an operative. And you don't want to tell him because you think he'll go rogue with the information and try to solve it on his own." He was obviously displeased by the idea, tapping his pen on the table again and ignoring his wife's hold on his forearm in hopes to draw him back to a more relaxed position in the chair. When he cracked a snide smirk and ran his hand through his hair, Beth frowned harder at the apprehension in his tone. "But of course Rawson's got some distant cousin working with the very people that tried to kill him. Kid's got the damnedest luck on the planet."

It was common knowledge among the team that Mick had a rather peculiar relationship with luck. But it wasn't necessarily his fault. The tone in which James spoke, the meaning beneath that was as clear as glass, insinuated that James didn't believe that. And Beth was less than tolerant of someone blaming a man for something they virtually had no control over. Especially someone she valued as a friend.

That must have been Sabrina's worry. Clearly James still blamed Mick for everything that had happened to him in Iraq all those years ago. In his eyes, Mick was responsible for the loss of his fingers and therefore his position in SAS.

Realizing that didn't instill confidence in Cooper's decision to have him as an asset on the case.

"Our next course of action then," Flores continued calmly, clearly surprised by the new information but able to control the presentation of such outwardly. "Is to find the man the finger once belonged to. If it is a cousin of Mick, that should narrow down the list."

"And how do you suppose we do that?" Beth asked bluntly, probably harsher than intended. She knew where they had to look next, and it wasn't something she wanted to delve into. Primarily because it felt like they were tearing apart Mick's life, like they did to the unsubs they hunted, and despite what she portrayed to the rest of the world, she actually did care about Mick. Not nearly in the same context as Gina, but more as a younger brother. "You expect us to tear apart his entire family history just to find one man? I mean, did it even occur to anyone to run the DNA through international databases to see if the guy pops up in something like Interpol? Or are we going to start with history books and old birth records to trace every cousin that might be scattered across the UK that's somewhat remotely related to Mick? Our resources are limited and Penelope can't exactly hack into some of the UK systems without repercussions on all of us…"

"Beth," Cooper intervened her ranting briskly, giving a stern expression that clearly was an order to stand down and listen. "No, we're not going to do that. We do have to find the man the finger belonged to because he's the best and only lead we have. But we'll be careful. Fickler has a contact at the Scotland Yard office in London. He's going to try to get the DNA run through their database without too much attention. If he's successful, it won't link to any of us, Mick included." That was better than Beth expected, although still a bit unsettling, so she gave a short nod and huffed a sigh in acceptance. He paused for a brief moment to offer a reassuring expression, then dragged the box into his lap and scrambled with the items inside. When he dropped the container on the floor beside the chair and placed a small plastic sealed bag on the table for them to see, he continued quickly. "Mick has been hiding details to the case because they all trace back to one thing."

Beth studied the contents of the bag as he spoke, leaning heavily on the table as Prophet dragged it closer to himself. It was a piece of small red cloth, worn with age and frayed on the ends as well as stained with what appeared to be relatively new blood on one corner. Through the plastic it still stank of gasoline and soot and decomposition, and the few charred spots were quite telling of its involvement in some kind of fire. More than that, it seemed to be part of a stuffed animal plush. Or _was_ at some point in time. Which was even more curious as to what value it had on the case at hand.

"When Gina's apartment was broken into back in December, the techs sent didn't find anything. But Mick found this underneath the carpet in the closet of the spare bedroom. According to Gina, he claims that it's part of an old stuffed animal his mother made him when he was a child. This piece is all that's left of it after the fire. It was supposed to be buried with his mother, and he's sure that it was because he put it in the coffin himself, but someone must have taken it from the coffin to be used as a kind of leverage. Fickler is running through some contacts in England now to get verification as to whether or not her grave has been disturbed recently." Cooper finished as he folded his hands in his lap and rocked in his chair, studying his teammates intently.

A once cherished child toy stolen from a beloved one's grave sounded intrinsically disgusting. How anyone could have done something like that was a mystery to Beth. Then again, she had seen unsubs hallucinate that a corpse was still alive and well, despite the fact that it was rotting in front of them. Crazy existed in all shapes and forms, and Rais certainly applied to that category.

"That _one thing_ it traces back to is family." Sabrina muttered as she glanced at Nikola, watching the kitten abandon his collection of cat toys near the windows to sniff at the frequency device near the door in curiosity. Unlike James, she seemed to be fond of Nikola. The kitten had that effect on quite a lot of people.

Family, blood relatives anyway, in Mick's case, involved distant relatives that didn't _want_ anything to do with him or Jenna for an unknown reason. Real family, people that actually cared about him, was not so elusive. Meaning Beth could only agree to a point. Because for them to refuse their own flesh and blood in such a manner, to make Mick and Jenna suffer through years of abusive homes because they were given to the foster system, meant they voided the right to call them family. Regardless of what DNA proved.

"So, we start with finding the man who had his finger cut off based on the DNA evidence given." James stated determinately. "And we find who and how someone delivered a piece of Rawson's history to his doorstep. From what I see, that's really our only two possible options."

As Cooper nodded his agreement and leaned forward to start collecting paperwork, Beth came to the same conclusion. There really was nothing else for them in any other lead. Surkov was gone and as much as Beth thought they should have been searching for her, it made perfect sense to start with what was tangible in front of them. Even though it felt like a trap. Like Flores was right in assuming that Rais was trying to separate Mick from the rest of the team.

Everyone else had to know the same thing, Beth reasoned. Her teammates, Flores included were skilled profilers. James was an ex-SAS Colonel that had once been in charge of the best special operations team the SAS had to offer. So whatever Rais planned for them, whatever trick he had set in play, wasn't going to separate them. Cooper wouldn't allow himself and everyone else to fall for such a ploy.

But Beth felt as if they already had.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back!  
So, this is pretty self-explanatory. There's a lot of dialog because it was necessary. I needed to set up most of the questions and answers that play further into the story. The traitor FBI agent's children come in later. As does the guy that delivered the finger to the office and escaped. Surkov, as far as they know, was last seen in Russia in late January. But I have big plans for her. The fact that she was injured at the time but it was assumed that she was alone means a lot. Thinking back to the first chapter, that could either mean Kyne was hiding or they split up. You'll see which soon enough. The idea that Mick had his DNA compared with that in the finger delivered leads them one step closer. But is it in the right or wrong direction? That's Beth's main concern. It also plays into the concept that Mick knows a hell of a lot more than he's willing to tell anyone. That only progresses with the story. Lastly, the piece of Mick's dragon is one of the more essential details. There's a damned good reason for its secrecy and the team is going to find that out soon enough.  
Now, enough of my rambling! The next installment to Intermission should be finished soon. I think I've finally managed to find the perfect one to post next.  
You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. Encouragement is always…well, encouraging. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! You all are absolutely awesome!


	8. Follow Your Instincts

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia is still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 8 Follow Your Instincts

"Is he always this paranoid?"

_Hyper vigilance is an enhanced state of sensory sensitivity accompanied by an exaggerated intensity of behaviors whose purpose is to detect threats. _

The definitions between paranoia and hyper vigilance are often misconstrued. People, my sister Ariel was no exception, don't usually know the distinct difference between both. Media has painted the inaccurate assumption that hyper vigilance is relatively the same as paranoia. But the psychology course I attended at the FBI academy was one of the few that actually made the distinct differences quite clear.

Paranoia is a type of mental illness, whereas hyper vigilance is an enhanced instinctual response to a severe trauma. Unlike paranoia, it ebbs away slowly when the person is taken out of the situation that drew the response to the surface. Said person knows of their actions, often dismisses it as _paranoid_ and knows the actions are inappropriate, which is the exact contradiction of clinical paranoia. There's a sense of vulnerability and self loathing beneath hyper vigilance, although Mick seemed to find a way to disguise that with the help of his natural egotism. The constant need to be alert is often justified to them, and few others given what the experienced trauma was and who knew about it, but not in the manner of delusional 'I think someone's out to get me.'That's a fine line, really. Lastly, hyper vigilance is in conjunction with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder whilst paranoia is recognized in other metal illnesses such as schizophrenia.

Realistically, Ariel was wrong in her question. Mick wasn't truly paranoid, although I admittedly had doubts sometimes, but he was hyper sensitive to his surroundings. He was a trained sniper that had served six years in a war and six years on the streets as a runaway when he was child, which meant that knowing his surroundings was critical to survival. I _understood _that because I knew him possibly better than he knew himself. There was no need to question the actions anymore. And I knew how to deal with it when the drastic instinct presented itself.

Ariel didn't know that though. She was the one I had to give an explanation to. That was strange, considering I had to explain myself to my younger sister who didn't even understand the same categorizations of psychology as I did. White Collar units did create psychological profiles for the thieves and con artists they hunted. But it was mundane in comparison to profiling a brilliant and delusional serial killer. That was what really set us apart and restricted us from having a long sisterly relationship. I understood things in a level that she couldn't. And that made it difficult to hold a conversation with her because she simply couldn't read between the lines and follow.

Not in the same aspect as my teammates, anyways.

So I hesitated to answer her, fingering the white plastic hanger in hand anxiously.

We were in the women's clothing section of the local Jacksonville Beach department store when Ariel leaned over the rack of swimsuits to whisper her question. After lunch at the local family seafood restaurant with our parents and the Sykes family, including Ariel's fiancé Keith, Ariel offered to drive Mick and I to her favored department store to purchase actual beachwear. Our parents were going back to the family vacation home to help our grandparents finish the last bit of cleanup and preparations for our uncles and aunts and cousins that were coming later in the day. The Sykes disappeared with Keith to get his tux fitted with the best man for the wedding.

At the time Ariel seemed genuinely concerned as she glanced at Mick just beyond the racks of clothing and advertising dressed manikins. But through the tight knit frown, there was amusement and curiosity. As if she found it strangely funny that Mick was studying every inch of the surrounding merchandise littered pristine white and red shelves, as well as the passing people pushing red carts that eyed him cautiously. It wasn't humorous in the slightest, yet I couldn't give her a damned decent reason as to why.

Instead of explaining that the CIA had been tailing us since we ruined their operation in Alaska in late December and there was a chance that an international mass murderer and terrorist was pissed that we got closer to his operation than ever before, I settled for a stern expression and shook my head. "It's hyper vigilance, not paranoia. There's a difference." I responded in the same quiet tone, trying to mask my obvious annoyance by the question. The two piece sky blue and black two piece swimsuit on the hanger in hand was hung back on the shelf harder than intended, and I winced at the transparencies I had let slip.

I turned towards Mick with a heavy sigh, catching his gaze settle on me with a reassuring smile that was not entire convincing. The store was far less crowded and claustrophobic than the restaurant we attended earlier. He seemed to be relieved by the lack of deafening noise and people he had to skirt around. Because he had already chosen his beachwear within twenty minutes of looking, he offered to give Ariel and I some private time while he leaned against the handle of the cart and studied the area. Even in the distance I could see his fingers tapping against cart handle just below his crossed arms nervously, the rhythm familiar and telling of his nerves. His smile lingered towards me for a few more moments before he returned to his surveillances.

At that moment, I knew something was wrong. I just couldn't figure out what it was exactly.

"I didn't mean to piss you off." Ariel drew my attention as she skipped through the opposite side of the rack, shoving hangers aside with a scratch of plastic against metal adamantly. She kept her eyes on the colorful clothing as she spoke, but a faint smirk ghosted her face. "And is there really a big difference between the two? I mean, he's acting like he's expecting someone to rush in with a rifle and start shooting everyone. That looks like paranoia to me." She continued and paused her actions with the hangers to lean forward again. "Are you really dating someone who's paranoid?"

I rolled my eyes in sudden frustration, busying my hands on the hangers absentmindedly as I shook my head adamantly. Why everyone came to the preconceived notion that Mick and I were in a relationship just because we were living together and were practically joined at the hip was still a mystery. It shouldn't have been, yet it was baffling. During the lunch earlier the Sykes family and Ariel bombarded Mick and I with questions. Most of which were answered honestly. But I thought I had been very clear as to the idea that we were simply good friends that desperately needed a vacation. Apparently my mother wasn't the only one who didn't believe that.

"He's not paranoid." I defended, frustrated and annoyed. Why I felt the need to defend Mick, I couldn't explain. It was just an argument that I couldn't let her win because Mick wasn't paranoid. He was mentally better than he had ever been because of me. I wasn't going to allow her to tarnish that idea in any way. "If you were paying attention earlier to what he was saying and not how _pretty_ you thought his accent is, then you'd know that six years in a damned war zone and six years on the streets between homes gives him a damned good reason to be cautious." Perhaps that was a bit harsh. It was absolutely true though, and she needed to realize that.

Her smirk fell completely, replaced by a serious and apologetic expression I had rarely ever seen from her. She appeared embarrassed as she dropped her eyes, shuffling her heels against the thin carpet. When she replied, she was sincere and less enthusiastically teasing. "I was paying attention…"

"No you weren't." I scoffed bitterly. "You were too damned busy undressing him with your eyes, just like Keith was doing to me. It's absolutely absurd that you can't see it."

"Jealous much?" She snapped, raising her tone just enough to highlight her embarrassment with her defensive attitude. "I may have been looking at your _not boyfriend_ because he's cute. But I sure as hell wasn't going to do more than that. Keith and I are happy together. I never would have agreed to marry him if I wasn't completely sure that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Despite what you may have over read."

That was ridiculous. I wasn't jealous of her actions towards Mick. They were harmless and while I was sure he noticed it stayed innocuous. I wasn't going to make a fuss unless that changed. Given the way she talked about Keith, I was positive that wasn't going to happen. And the fact that she could forgive Keith without a second thought, even though I could see that she was truly uncertain about it, didn't make any logical sense to me. She was blind to the evidence in front of her, albeit it was circumstantial at best, and I knew she was going to regret her ignorance later.

"You're blind. Didn't you see the way he was practically drooling? Doesn't that strike you as something to be worried about?"

"What the hell are you trying to say?" She hissed through grounded teeth, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes dangerously. If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was going to jump over the rack and wring my neck for the innuendos. Ariel wasn't the violent type though. She had never tried to attack me. Well, except when she was about five and I _accidentally_ shaved the fake hair from all of her dolls because she ruined my favorite _Agatha Christie _novel by using it as a coloring book…

That was ages ago though.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

Fighting with Ariel in the middle of a department store with a few other women around to hear wasn't desirable. We hardly ever agreed on a subject, so arguing with her wasn't uncommon. I didn't intend to retaliate with such a low blow. It was cruel and unnecessary; even if I thought she needed to know that I feared that her fiancé was going to disappoint her in the end. But I wasn't going to apologize. There was no reason to. The fight was bound to get loud too, especially since neither of us could ever back down once it started until someone separated us.

Thankfully Mick must have seen the argument brewing.

"Hey, darling, chose one." I didn't hear Mick approach until his words snapped us away from each other. Turning on a dime, I found him directly behind me with two swinging dresses, one on each arm, outstretched towards me pointedly. A determined expression said that he wanted to divert the previous conversation, and this was the only way he could think of doing so without getting caught in the middle.

Both dresses were long and elegant, one a crisp ocean blue with a low cut front and thin shoulder straps, the other similar but slightly shorter on both the top and bottom and a dark navy blue with a zipper stretching down the back. Honestly, I wasn't generally fond of dresses. There was no room to hide a gun in a skin tight dress or a knife in the matching heels. They were suggestive to most other men and I didn't need that attention at the moment. And Mick knew that.

Aside from the appreciated distraction, there was another unmentioned motive. I had mentioned, when we were in DC after my father came to our shared apartment, that I didn't want to dance with the Sykes twins during the wedding. Hence one of the pressing reasons why I dragged Mick with me. Naturally I didn't own any dresses that I could have packed for the trip, so purchasing one was the only option. Clearly Mick put the pieces together quicker than I anticipated.

I stared at him in confusion for a few moments before his intentions made sense. Then smirked and sighed as the sly grin forming on his features dissipated the tension. He gave a wag of his eyebrows in emphasis, the same thing he did to lure every other woman into flirting with him, and I choked out a chuckle at the motion. The constant observing was still present as he fought to keep his eyes from darting towards the scarce others near the surrounding racks. But he shrugged away the nervousness for just a moment as he continued with a flirting tone to his Welsh accent that caused most women to melt. "That dance you mentioned earlier this morning, ya need a dress. You'd look lovely in both of these."

Ariel couldn't look away from us, the surprise on her face evidently enough to leave her speechless. She had seen Mick flirt with me during lunch, even more so when we decided to share a platter of fish and chips and shrimp because we didn't want to save leftovers, and that was probably the reasoning behind her logic that Mick and I were secretly a couple. Mick's actions either furthered that assumption or perplexed her entirely because we both denied the claim. Given the confusion contorting her features, I was betting on the latter.

"Clever." I mumbled to myself as I pulled the first dress off one arm and studied it thoroughly. It was made from a silky material that wasn't quite silk, the seams strong and flexible so it would be comfortable and durable if I had to run in it for whatever reason -this line of work has taught me to prepare for the improbable-, and the color itself was alluring and beautiful. But a quick glance at the price tag ruined any hopes of purchases it. How could I spend almost two hundred dollars on a dress I was probably only going to wear once or twice?

"I try. I'll buy whichever one you want, darling." Mick seemed to read the disappointment I couldn't disguise, gently shoving the other dress in my hands insistently and jabbing a finger towards the changing rooms in the small center of the department. The employee at the desk was oblivious, the carts of clothing needed to be sorted and shelved but she seemed too busy with the computer to care.

The sentiment was astonishingly generous. But I knew he couldn't afford that in addition with everything else he was buying for himself. The FBI only paid so much, and a good portion of his earnings for the past year had been spent on Christmas gifts for our teammates and his family in England. He did have a second UK account that he mentioned once some time ago. Supposedly the SAS dumped his mission earnings into it and it could only be accessed for living or mission necessities. He simply wasn't allowed to use the money for vacation. Somehow I assumed that would have been the equivalent of fraud. Which was illegal in both the US and UK.

So how was he going to buy it?

"You do realize that I get the same paycheck every week that you do. You don't make enough to buy this and everything you've already picked out. Not without tapping into the money you've set back for _Downtown Disney_." I stated with a glance at Ariel, somewhat satisfied by her silence.

He shrugged and smirked, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets to fumble with something. "Don't worry about it." He dismissed, bringing a hand to gently nudge me towards the changing rooms. A pause lasted briefly before he nodded at the rack of two piece swimsuits expectantly, the grin on his face widening. "Hunter green or turquoise suites you best. Like that sweater you wore during Penelope's Christmas party last year."

I didn't respond immediately, looking between the flirtatious grin from Mick that I couldn't help but return and the awkwardness my sister had stepped into. Of course he was going to advise on which swimsuit to wear. Aside from the hyper-awareness that kept him constantly scanning the area because something obviously seemed wrong to him, he was having a decent time with me. Like most men, he found clothing shopping inevitably boring. But this was his way of making light from an uncomfortable moment. And he really just wanted to chose the swimsuit I was going to wear because we were probably going to spend a lot of time on the beach to avoid the drama of my relatives as much as possible.

Snagging a few appropriate swimsuits from the rack, I elbowed him in the arm lightly and replied, "You really have no idea how to be subtle, do you?"

He wrinkled his brow in mock thought for a second before shaking his head. "None whatsoever."

* * *

Hyper vigilance had a purpose.

Simplistically that purpose was to identify possible threats. Occasionally there were no threats to speak of. It verged on paranoia, in those instances, because it was fictional and only relevant to the person at hand. Not quite delusional but not entirely sane either. However, sometimes there _was_ an initial threat that justified the protective instinctual response.

You just couldn't _physically_ see it yet.

Mick's instincts were sparsely ever incorrect. He had a natural sixth sense, an undeniable talent, when the issue required his instincts. That was one of the many aspects that made him a great partner. I could always rely on him to know when the situation was going down before I could. In the past it kept us alive during dangerous cases, and kept him alive during his stint overseas.

But sometimes I wished that he truly was just over thinking the situations. That his PTSD was getting the better of him and we honestly weren't in any kind danger. It was never quite that simple though.

The parking lot in front of the department store contradicted what we had seen indoors. It was just after three o'clock in the afternoon by the time we finished checkout, and apparently we waited too long to leave. The rows of white outlined parking spaces separated by small decorative flower beds were bustling with cars. Some clearly belonged to employees and civilians just trying to go shopping. Others, unfortunately, must have belonged to the rather noisy crowd of young adults partying nearby.

Spring break didn't occur to me until that moment. I had been a teenager once, and I will admit to attending a spring break when I was nineteen in Daytona. But it didn't last for very long before my father snatched me up and threatened to have me arrested for underage drinking if I didn't stop. Naturally I did listen to him because technically I wasn't legally allowed to drink alcohol, and being arrested would have made it impossible to join the FBI academy.

So the sight of young adults, probably not old enough to legally have the alcohol they were passing around, partying to obnoxiously loud music from ridiculously enhanced stereos in their vehicles most likely bought by their parents wasn't something new. It wasn't appreciated because they were blocking a large majority of the row of parked cars. But it wasn't new. I could have even ignored it had they not been restricting our access to Ariel's car.

"How the hell am I supposed to get to my car without causing some kind of incident?" Ariel questioned with a frustrated sigh beside me. That was the first time she had spoken since we fought forty minutes before. Obviously my words still held merit as she avoided looking at me and turned to Mick beside her.

Mick's hyper-awareness had presented itself more prominently since he stepped out of the store. Upon first thought I assumed it was caused by the spring break crowd. But the way he ignored them to scan the other passerby's with a tight expression and an even stronger grip on the cart handles in front of him suggested otherwise. I did offer to push the cart for him but he refused and stayed one step behind Ariel and I at all times. As if he was using that as an excuse to mask his actions.

"You could always just pull your car out and drive it around over here. We can put the stuff in the trunk before someone gets pissed that you parked in a _no parking_ zone." I suggested with a shrug. It really was the only other option. We could have gone together, but it would have taken a few minutes to pack everything in her electric _Nissan. _And knowing Mick's luck, those few minutes would have been enough to inadvertently start a fight with one of the alpha male students.

Ariel pondered that solution for a few moments, seemingly coming to the same relative conclusion, and nodded briskly in agreement. "Okay, but if I'm not back in five minutes, call the police." That was her attempt at a joke aimed at Mick or I to hopefully sap away some of the tension.

I mumbled my own agreement and clapped her on the shoulder gently to urge her forward. She was evidently nervous because crowds had always made her uneasy. Contact with people she couldn't control or knew were going to give her stress had always been avoided to the best of her abilities. So as I watched her step off the concrete and onto the pavement whilst readjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder, I realized that perhaps she was growing up in a way. If she could get her car out without any fuss from hormonal and drunken spring break collage students, she could probably handle much more than I originally estimated.

Once she was out of earshot, I closed the short distance between Mick and hooked an arm around his own, silently urging him to calm himself. "What do you see?" I asked in a whisper, trying to follow his gaze and understand exactly what he was analyzing.

He did relax minutely but didn't look away from the few people leaving the building to our left. "We're being followed." He replied in the same low tone, his accent distinguishing his overwhelming seriousness.

Followed?

It couldn't have been the CIA operatives we pissed off in Alaska. We hadn't seen any blatant supposedly _covert_ CIA operatives tailing us, even after we landed in Jacksonville hours ago. More than likely they were either busy in DC with our teammates, or they didn't perceive a vacation with family in Florida as a threat. There was no reason to spy on Mick and I because we weren't working on the Rais case at the moment. At least, I wasn't. I didn't give the change much thought because it was refreshing to not have to constantly look over my shoulder and expect to see someone stalking me. But it was disconcerting, now that the thought did seem relevant.

If they weren't following us, then who was?

The only other option was someone from Rais' direct group. Probably not Surkov because I doubted Rais would have simply allowed her back in the US after her cover had been compromised. It could have been someone else, someone discrete enough to stay inconspicuous towards Mick and I. We didn't know more than a few supposed members of Rais' group, and it didn't appear as if any of them were in the area.

"By whom?" I asked, feeling that twist in the pit of my stomach that normally accompanied flying bullets or an explosion.

Mick shook his head and gnawed on his lip, furrowing his brow as he replied sincerely, "I don't know. It started when we left the restaurant. Then got worse when you and your sister were searching for swimsuits. I know there are cameras everywhere but that's not the same thing. Someone is genuinely following us and I can't determine who or where they are. They're damned good, and it's frustrating that I can't find them."

I released a sigh that seemed to weigh in my chest, turning my attention to Ariel for just a moment. She was skirting around the mass of college students rather easily, finding the drivers door to her car and fumbling with the keys from her purse. I didn't look away as I responded, "CIA or Rais?"

"The CIA has been too easy to spot so far. I doubt it's them. Someone from Rais' group could have been sent to keep an eye on us. I just don't know how they'd know we're here. It's not like we announced it on the bloody internet."

He had a valid point. No one in the FBI aside from our teammates and Fickler knew we were in Florida. My relatives didn't know I was coming until I stepped on the plane in DC, and my father had been careful about who he alerted to our presence. Our teammates, including Flores and Penelope, wouldn't have announced it on the internet for fear of losing their jobs and pissing off Cooper. Red Cell members were hardly known on the internet and we preferred it that way. What little that did exist had nothing to do with the FBI or Red Cells at all. It was personal things such as dating and social websites. Mick and I didn't have our names in either category.

Meaning they had to know from a different source. Or rather, a direct source.

"If it is one of Rais' goons…" I started to ponder aloud, watching Ariel slowly back her vehicle out of the parking space as the nearby students' yelled curses and sidestepped with dirty finger gestures in her direction.

"Then someone close to us gave the information." Mick carried the thought easily, his eyes fixating on one individual more than twenty five foot away. I recognized that gleam in his eyes, knew that it was indicative of someone seeing something impossibly familiar. The manner in which he released his grip from the cart and swallowed convulsively as if his throat had just seized only made the assumption worse.

From the distance, I couldn't get a very discernible description of the man. He was in his mid thirties at the least, well built in muscle tone and relaxed as he leaned against the brick of the building and focused on a small black flip phone in his hands. Dressed in dark jeans, worn brown boots, a buttoned gray long sleeve that seemed to be frayed on the cuffs, and an average baseball cap that he had probably just recently bought to conceal his dark thick stubble features; he didn't appear to be the type of person to secretly follow two trained FBI agents. That is, until I saw the missing middle finger on his right hand. The black fingerless gloves resembled those that Mick was always fond of, and did a great job of giving the illusion that he had all his fingers. There was no visible lump around the missing digit, meaning it didn't require a bandage any longer.

And it was probably months old.

That didn't explain why Mick acted so strangely towards him.

"Mick, what's going on?" I pressed quietly, tightening my grip on his arm in hopes to draw his attention away. He was beginning to scare me, with the way he didn't pull his eyes from the other man. Something about the man caused a negative reaction, and until I figured out why I didn't know what the hell to do.

He sidestepped away from the cart, away from me, and yanked his arm out of my grip sharply. Then he mumbled something that sounded strangely like _Lucas_ under his breath, muffled by the other distracting noises in a way that I almost believed I misheard him. I reached for his arm to stop him as he stepped forward again, his steps attentive and precise like he was gauging if the other man would run when he got too close. When my fingers brushed his jacket sleeve to no avail, I abandoned the cart and tried again more desperately. He ignored me though, which was ample reason for the beginnings of panic to come to the surface.

"Hey, you!" He shouted at the man as his steps started picking up speed, urgent to close the distance between them. The man didn't respond even in the slightest. Because of that, I was beginning to fear that Mick had seen what he wanted, not what was absolutely real. Perhaps he pegged the man as suspicious and familiar because he stood out against the others in the crowd. He was different and somehow familiar, and maybe Mick was wrong in the end.

For once in his life his instincts could have misled him.

Or I could have been wrong.

"Lucas Baines!" Mick shouted hastily, shoving his way past other pedestrians who eyed him in mixed confusion and curiosity impatiently.

The moment the name left his mouth, the man slipped his cell phone into his jeans pocket and pushed himself off of the wall. He didn't acknowledge the name or Mick. Instead he turned on his heels and started a brisk walk in the opposite direction. It was a casual pace and didn't provide any indications that he was running from Mick per say. His hands were kept at his sides, the posture relaxed in some way but urgent to leave the area.

There was no such thing as a coincidence.

"Lucas! Stop!" Mick shouted as he broke into a jog, leaving me to attempt to keep up with him. He pushed his way through the crowd more frantically as the man drew closer to the end of the building and the attaching road beside it. The line of cars parked in front of the hill leading up to the busy main highway, which was fenced at the top and shrouded with vegetation, could have provided excellent cover. Therefore Mick, if the man was truly responsible for following us, had to stop him before that point.

Ariel's car came to a crawl against the concrete walkway beside me as I maintained a steady clip towards Mick. The driver side window was rolled down as she kept the vehicle moving to keep up with me. "Gina, what the hell is he doing?" She asked, clearly perplexed as she darted her attention between the pedestrians, Mick in the distance, and myself.

"I don't know yet. Just go make sure no one steals from our cart. I'll get him." I replied sharply, sidestepping a woman and her five year old son with a mumbled apology. Ariel didn't respond, but veered her car away from the concrete and back towards the cart I left behind in agreement.

By the time I managed to cut through the crowd of people, the man was rounding the corner of the building. Mick wasn't far behind, breaking into a full long stride run once he didn't have people restricting him. I finally closed the distance just as Mick followed the other man around the corner, sliding the heels of my boots against the concrete as I rounded the same corner quickly.

The man was seen crossing the road and headed towards the line of cars, jogging and flagging a few of the approaching vehicles to slow. But he didn't stop once he was beside the vehicles. Instead he started climbing the hill, using his hands to stabilize himself when his feet slipped on the damp ground. He _was_ running. Why else would he bother with a hill rather than a car?

Unless he was luring Mick…

There wasn't time to scream at Mick to stop. I could have sworn the world stopped at that moment, that I was living some kind of nightmare that only _felt_ real. But reality was undeniable, and all I could do was push myself faster in hopes to catch Mick before it was too late.

He was already running across the street, his attention solely focused on the man scaling up the hill, fists clenched as his legs pushed him faster and sheer determination on his features. While usually that blinding determination was a quality factor on cases, it wasn't a good asset in situations such as this. It meant that he didn't see the navy blue open top convertible speeding towards him. The driver, a twenty year old seemingly late to the party, was too busy downing a bottle of beer to slow even in the slightest. At least not until she got within ten feet of Mick and was forced to slam onto the brakes or run him over.

It wasn't enough time to stop completely. Gravity was still carrying the car forward and because of the speed she had been going, there was no way to stop it completely just yet.

Mick couldn't dodge it. Getting hit by a car at roughly thirty miles per hour was going to hurt like hell, and it was probably going to warrant a trip to the hospital. All he could do was jump at the last second, allowing himself to roll onto the hood rather than let his legs take the brunt of the impact. He was thrown off and rolled onto the ground as the car jerked to a stop, landing on his front with an audible gasp as the air was yanked from him.

I spent three seconds just watching the scene from the sidewalk, frozen in place and too shocked to move. People were shouting to call the police and an ambulance, parents directed their children away from the scene, vehicles in the immediate area stopped to see what the hell was going on. Even the driver of the convertible jumped out of her car, forgetting about the beer bottle thrown on the passenger seat, and just stood against the driver door because she was too afraid to move.

That feeling of dread and helplessness seemed to last forever before it dissipated with the pressing urgency.

"FBI, someone call the local police and get an ambulance here now!" I ordered angrily as I pulled my FBI credentials from my purse over my shoulder and flashed them to those around me. At the same time I crossed the street in a short few seconds and jabbed a hateful finger at the young woman beside her convertible. "Don't you _dare _try to run or I will shoot you." It was an idle threat because I didn't have my gun. I had an emergency knife in my boot, but she didn't need to know that. Considering the way she stared at me wide horrified eyes and started to apologize adamantly, she really believed the threat.

Falling to my knees beside Mick, I tried to catalog any injuries with only a few mumbled frustrated curses. His arms were drawn up and out so his hands rested on either side of his head against the pavement. The rapid rise and fall of his back meant that he was still alive. And the only physical injury I could see was a long painful and seeping scrape against the cheek pressed against the pavement. There were bound to be bruises from the impact that would make themselves known later. He blinked several times as if to clear his vision, mouth gaping against the pavement to catch his breath.

The distant sound of sirens was reassuring. As was the sight of Ariel rushing towards us with her cell phone pressed against her ear and securing a perimeter by flashing her own FBI credentials as well.

"Just stay down. They'll be here in a minute." I stated as Mick tried to roll himself onto his back.

He climbed to his hands and knees shakily and shrugged off my hand on his shoulder, dropping his head to the pavement and squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment. Then he landed on his side, wrapping one arm around his torso protectively and using the other to point to the hill. "Stop him." He breathed heavily.

I couldn't comply though. A thorough scan of the hill proved that the man was gone. The only significant indication of where he might have disappeared to was a wavering section of fence. He must have seen the car coming, must have known that the only way to escape was to lure Mick in front of it and use the distraction as cover. It was a dirty trick, something neither Mick nor I realized until the very last second. Which meant that whoever it was didn't intend to ever be seen. The fact that Mick did see him and recognized him meant that he had to react. That could have gotten Mick killed if he hadn't jumped at the last second.

My hand found its way to Mick's shoulder again, squeezing lightly in reassurance for both of us. "He's gone, Mick." I retorted dejectedly, drawing an exaggerated sigh as I dropped my tone and continued, "Who is Lucas Baines?"

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hi people! I'm back!  
I only have a few crucial points to make about this. First involves Ariel and Keith. It's pretty obvious that Keith, in Gina's eyes, is going to disappoint Ariel in some way. Ariel is just too blind to see it. That probably won't happen in this story, but in a future one. Second, Gina's defense of Mick being referred to as paranoid, and the scene between the two when he was breaking up the fight between her and Ariel, is really telling towards their relationship. There's also the question of how Mick was able to pay for the dress he bought her without tapping into the money he set aside for their later trips. I'll say that it is relevant to the main storyline involving Rais. Lastly, they were being followed. They didn't think it was the CIA, but someone from Rais' organization. No one was supposed to know they were in Florida yet, so that leaves the question as to how someone from Rais' group knew where they were. Unless they had an inside source. As for whom Lucas Baines is, I don't want to say too much about that just yet. Too many spoilers are a bad thing, I think. Was the man actually who Mick thought he was, or someone else? And how did Mick recognize him? You'll see.  
So, I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far. I really do appreciate the encouragement.


	9. Used To Be This Dying Breed

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 9 Used To Be This Dying Breed

_Rawson _is one variant spelling of a surname with medieval English origins. The original fundamentals of the name are said to be derived from the Norman Conquest in the eleventh century, and is adapted from the Old French given name of _Raol. _Much like a large portion of ancient surnames, the first use of the name isn't in the same spelling context as what is commonly seen today. Centuries had given the name multiple spellings and pronunciations based on which region the person lived in. Over the last several hundred years, those with the last name of _Rawson_ or other spellings of such settled across the United Kingdom and the United States. Some became well known and respected politicians or historians, artists and soldiers, brave and noble people with a strong will and independence. Places were even named after few in countries outside of the United Kingdom, such as Argentina. Essentially, the name held quite a bit of prideful and unique history.

It wasn't in the top one hundred lists of common surnames across the world. Although, it seemed much more present in the United Kingdom than the United Sates. Especially in West Yorkshire, England. But there were still thousands with the name in some degree.

Scattered across England and Wales, Scotland and Ireland, there were still too many to properly search for a genetic link to _the_ Michael Gareth Rawson that was a crucial member to Sam Cooper's Red Cell team.

Therefore, much to Beth's disdain, their only possible option was to work backwards.

Beth knew their options were drastically limited. She _knew_ the only chance of finding an answer to their latest query in the Rais case involved digging into the background of someone she valued as a family member. However, it still _felt _like treason. Privacy had always been a trait she respected, mostly because she understood the importance of it, and she hated the idea that she was disregarding her own personal beliefs to solve a mystery. If it were anyone else on any other case, she would have just swallowed her pride and done what was necessary. But it wasn't _anyone_ else.

They were investigating Mick in hopes to find a distant cousin with some form of ties to the Rais case. A man she considered as a younger brother, despite their tendency to argue and bicker, and that just made the situation seem so much worse.

Hours had been spent in the conference room with her teammates. Cooper had promised discretion, that they would only research what was absolutely necessarily to maintain Mick's prideful reputation, and he hadn't just been catering to Beth's insecurities and worries. But when their searches became drastically impaired by lack of information on the open internet and hard copied files, he had no other choice but to contact Penelope. The FBI didn't have information on foreign people that weren't technically a threat, especially those in allied countries. Meaning Penelope was authorized to gather the information by whatever means necessarily, as long as those means didn't lead the CIA back to them.

Fickler hadn't argued, but Penelope was working on another high profile case at the time. The moment she became available she was to contact Cooper and someone would drive her to the office with her portable computer equipment. With no news from Fickler yet, she was their best connection to the cyber world of the internet.

They had combed through every piece of data compiled pertaining to Mick's heritage. Every document the FBI and Interpol had on record, at least those Cooper had access to, and every seemingly small hint ever mentioned, as well as any internet page they could print on paper that was deemed useful. Yet they hadn't been able to complete a list of people who were undoubtedly related by blood to Mick or Jenna Rawson. There were more _maybes_ than anything else on the family tree they had constructed on the portable dry-erase board staged near the table. Without absolute confirmation, _maybe _was simply not good enough.

At ten minutes before three o'clock in the afternoon, Cooper suspended their work for a temporary lunch break. He had disappeared into his office to make an important phone call to Fickler in private, probably to question what new information Fickler may have found via his contacts overseas. Flores accepted his money for lunch and jotted a list of what to order from the deli down the street on paper. Sabrina Mills volunteered to accompany her, which Beth assumed was due to curiosity of a new country than anything else. And Prophet was given the order to escort Penelope from the FBI federal building to the office, simply because the CIA operatives tailing them were not going to be pleased that they couldn't phase the team's determinations.

Lack of conversation from others had left Beth to swim in her own musings.

James was in the room, as was Nikola, but neither of which gave her much attention. The other man had moved his seat away from the conference table some time ago, crossing his legs at the ankles to stretch in the chair comfortably. He was still cautious and observant of his surroundings, dark distrustful eyes bounced between the physical objects of the room and Beth and Nikola. It was a definitive signature towards his PTSD. The translucent nervousness in new surroundings portrayed itself in the inability to remain still. His fingers, all eight of them, had busied themselves with a rubber band or pen subconsciously. But he didn't actually _say_ anything. He just observed and formulated scenarios based on the given information Beth couldn't begin to guess.

Nikola, after his lunch, decided to curl into a small black and gray fur mass on the seat beside her and nap. Beth had gently scrubbed his head for a few minutes, which received a quiet squeak in thanks. That didn't last long before he fell into a restless sleep. His small body twitched at times, the claws extending into the seat cushion for a moment before retracting. It was strange to see the normally energetic kitten rest, but Beth didn't dare wake him. Instead she used the camera on her cell phone to snap a picture and sent it to Gina, reassuring her and Mick that their kitten was physically fine.

Afterwards, she sank into her chair with her notepad and pen in her lap, and her feet propped on the edge of the table. The position gave a clear view to the dry-erase board and the familiar scrawl of Cooper's handwriting in black and red ink. Positive results, such as Mick's parents, were written in black whilst any others were in red. Brackets connected names with dates of birth and death. Countries and cities of origin were abbreviated and categorized in the same manner. All of which were used to discern just how many family members had turned their backs on Mick and Jenna more than two decades ago.

According to what little they had actually been able to confirm, Marc Rawson and Katherine Baines married in Swansea on March twentieth, 1982. Then moved to Penarth when Katherine was two months pregnant with her first son several months later. They opened a pub/home near the ocean that became widely respected for the jovial and family oriented atmosphere it provided. Unfortunately they were killed in an arson fire on April thirtieth, 1991. The exact details pertaining to the event were only a scarce mention on an old newspaper someone from a library in Cardiff had scanned onto the internet. That was strange because there should have been more.

The family was well known and respected in the town of Penarth. Katherine brought her children to the local church for service every weekend, and hosted small parties and fundraisers for the local primary school and church. In all honesty, the idea of Mick attending church as a child was odd because Beth always assumed he was an atheist, although he probably adopted that belief after his parents were murdered. Regardless of religion, the family was _important_ in the community. Surely the investigation on the man responsible had taken priority. There had to be more information than just a short three paragraphs.

Katherine Baines was a musician, according to what they had compiled. She played the piano and sang with an amazing grace that obviously became a key attraction to the pub. Her family always took first priority, regardless of the business, and she adored her children unconditionally. Using her last name and a public ancestry website, Beth was able to gather that she originated from Barmouth, Gwynedd in North Wales. She was only able to find confirmation for one older brother and sister but there was a good possibility of others. The sister moved to Lancaster with her three children after her husband tried to beat her to death when he lost his job. And the brother died in 1987 after supposedly jumping out of a third floor window and landing on the concrete below. It was ruled as an accident, but the details of how the police came to that idea were redacted from any records online.

Scotland Yard was involved, for whatever reason, meaning Fickler's contact could have gotten the specifics if pressed hard enough.

Marc Rawson was a private investigator with a sizable reputation in his spare time. The company he worked for was still unknown, but he worked in Cardiff between his second job at the pub in Penarth. Finding his family line was much harder in comparison to his wife. He spent his years between eighteen and twenty four as a decorated Royal Marine, and the majority of his missions as such were nowhere to be found on the internet. That was expected, really. He had a younger brother still living in the family home in Harlech, Gwynedd, who worked as a theater stage director with his wife and four children during the week days. Yet no other information about other siblings was found.

Supposedly the county of Gwynedd was more centered on ancient Welsh than some other parts of the country. The percentage of people in Northern Wales who spoke fluent Welsh was considerably higher than those in the south. Both Marc and Katherine probably spoke the language around their children, which explained how Mick was fluent in the language.

Grandparents on both sides of the family only consisted of two. Marc's mother, originally from a small port town in Scotland but moved to Wales before his birth, was still alive in a retirement home in Harlech, his father died of a stroke at the age of sixty. His father, bon in Wales and met his wife before the war, served in World War Two as one of the first and the best British SAS snipers. Katherine's mother, Sofia, was being cared for at a psychiatric home in London after having a severe mental breakdown due to her schizophrenia. Her father passed away due to an unknown genetic disease when she was child.

Beth silently questioned if that _unknown genetic disease_ was something that could have been passed to Katherine's children. If Mick knew the disease was in the family genetics, then that could have explained why he had been outwardly cautious of health for his sister.

With all of that information, it seemed as though Mick had many family members he could have turned to. Someone would have taken more notice to the deaths of his parents. The investigation should have gotten more media coverage. Relatives, uncles and aunts and cousins, _should_ have stepped in to help the children when Marc and Katherine were murdered.

The fact that no one did, that no one else seemed to care, didn't make sense. There were too many holes in the family tree and that was a problem. If Marc was a private investigator, than whatever he had been working on at the time could have been the cause of his death. It could have been the answer as to why he and his family were targeted by an arsonist. Why the rest of the family refused to acknowledge their own flesh and blood.

Logically, the mysterious cousin they were looking for could have been anyone in the family line. They only had a few uncles and aunts mapped and not all of their children. He could have originated from either side of the family. They needed some kind of lead, something to point them in a better direction. The question was what and how were they going to achieve that?

Beth heaved a sigh as she pulled her gaze from the dry-erase board, turning her attention to the notebook in hand without a word. James glanced at her during the motion, but Beth didn't give him the satisfaction of her attention for the moment. Instead she focused on the printed newspaper article stashed in her notebook, the attached black and white and gray photo enlarged and grainy. A heavy frown formed on her features, sympathetic and woeful no matter how much she tried to push it away. Her heart felt heavy at the sight, similar to the instances when she thought back to the innocent victims she hadn't been able to save during an investigation.

The photo may have been digitized and grainy, but the context was still quite clear. It must have been taken the night of the fire, the photographer obviously set behind the crime scene tape and mess of officers and firefighters and medics. Emergency vehicles were scattered around the building, horrified neighbors seen in the background with a look of absolute disbelief and shock on their features. The building itself was collapsed from the roof, the entire second floor pushing down on the first as flames darted out of the shattered windows and licked the exterior. Still hanging from a leaning pole that appeared to be falling in time with the roof was the Welsh flag, the fabric caught in the fire and burning with the passing seconds.

Whoever the arsonist was died in the fire. Mick had mentioned that once to Cooper, who in turn told the rest of the team when the time became necessary. Supposedly Katherine and Marc weren't the only two burned alive. There were four bodies pulled from the wreckage, singed and reliant on only dental records for identification. An employee and family friend named Owen Croft was found in the kitchen doorway, seemingly trapped as if he were running for the exit. The identity of the arsonist was never found, seeing as the dental records didn't exist.

Beth pulled the photo closer to her face, studying the grays and blacks and whites with a mixture of fascination and sympathetic sorrow. It wasn't until the page was inches from her face, until her eyes fell on the small black signature scrawled on the bottom left side of the photo that she felt as if the newspaper clipping had actually been useful. The signature was nothing more than a barely legible first initial and surname. But Beth deciphered it quick enough to surprise herself, feeling the sudden rush of excitement heighten her attentiveness. She used her pen to circle the name roughly, then slid the page sideways and stated to rewrite the name in a more legible fashion.

_H. Cadwallader._

The name was familiar in an instant. Coincidences simply didn't exist, as far as Beth was concerned, and Beth had no reason to doubt that. Months ago, when they were working the Alaska case and Mick had told them about his stint in Iraq and Rais, Penelope had hacked the CIA network to the best of her ability. Ultimately the CIA had found the breach in their system and neutralized it, but Penelope was able to pull some significant data. The majority of which was still redacted under the excuse of classified. However, she was able to pull only a single name from the mess. _Harold Jernigan Cadwallader_. They didn't know more than a name, and Penelope hadn't been able to find who he could have been in any context. It sounded like an alias of some kind, one that Mick profiled was classic Welsh and probably from someone in his fifties at the least, and that was all there was to the name. Was the man a victim? An informant of some kind? The right or wrong side of morality?

There was just no way to know.

She pushed her feet off of the table with a thud, shoving the chair back and to the side until it accidentally connected with the chair Nikola was sleeping on. The kitten, as well as James startled and gave a confused look in her direction, were ignored as she grabbed the page and rushed for the conference room door. A moment later she was rushing for Cooper's office.

* * *

"So the grave has never been disrupted? Are you sure your contact is reliable?"

Reliability has always been a problem with informants. It's a term widely spread through law enforcement agencies across the world. Typically, the phrase is associated with criminals. They _snitch _or give information to officers in exchange for leniency, or a paycheck. It's dangerous, in the world of organized crime and deadly corporate espionage, and therefore unreliable. The informant could vanish if his identity was compromised, or refuse to help them any longer if they were too afraid that someone knew what they were doing.

But the word didn't only associate with criminals. In the midst of international agencies that didn't often work together well due to ridiculous bureaucracy, the prospect of a clear and useful informant was a difficult concept. There were rules restricting them, supervisors and teammates watching their every move, and any outside information given was generally frowned upon. There was no payroll or practical exchange for the information, just the knowledge that the informant owed a favor. The informants themselves were often old _friends_ in some manner, which became quite useful in escaping the paperwork connected to actual international agency channels.

Cooper had every right to be wary of the legitimacy of Fickler's contacts overseas. Beth knew the tenuous nature of second-hand information well enough, and she knew the likelihood of inadequacy was troublesome in any official capacity. She understood that the director of the FBI could only pull so many strings without creating a reaction from unwanted eyes. And every caution had to be taken into account to cover their tracks.

Therefore Cooper's perplexed and curious tone was quite the insight into what he had been discussing with Fickler. The innuendos implanted the idea that Fickler had hit a brick wall as far as sources were concerned. He was supposed to confirm if Katherine Rawson's grave had been disturbed recently. Katherine and Marc Rawson were buried in Penarth Cemetery, meaning Fickler's contact had to consult with the groundskeepers and others who worked on the property, as well as any records they may have logged over the years. It must have taken several hours just to sort through the initial records.

In the end, if Beth was correct in reading between the lines, then the grave had never been disturbed. Which didn't make any logical sense. If that piece of old tattered red cloth in a bag in the conference room was a piece of Mick's stuffed dragon from his childhood with his parents, than how did it get from Katherine Rawson's grave to United States without the grave being disrupted? Someone either dug it up and covered his tracks expertly well or it was never in the grave to begin with.

Meaning someone lied.

Beth hesitated in the doorway of Cooper's office as that realization swept over her. The file and pen in hand were twisted anxiously, impatient for Cooper's full attention. She teetered on her heels, tapping the toe of her left shoe against the floor subconsciously, and tried to appear less desperate than she truly felt. The moments before, when she pushed the office door open without any regard towards privacy and ordered Cooper to end his phone call with Fickler immediately, only to receive a brief wave of his hand to signify patience, only seemed to make matters worse.

Cooper was seated behind his desk with his cell phone pressed to his ear, reclined just enough to rock his chair back and forth as a displeased scowl formed on his dark features. The collection of notes was consistent with the pen being flexed between large fingers, some stapled together while others were spread loosely in an open file folder splayed on the desk before him. His laptop computer was open and the bright glare of his email program hinted to what he was reading. He furrowed his brow after a few tense moments, listening intently as he shook his head in disagreement.

"I'm not questioning you, Jack; I'm questioning your informant in Cardiff. We have evidence proving that the grave was disrupted at one point, whether that was years ago or recent. Someone must have gotten into Katherine Rawson's grave to retrieve the evidence. It can't just _magically_ appear. Is there any way you can have the records kept by the groundskeeper sent to us for review?" He continued into the phone with a roll of his eyes in frustration. The moment of pause drew a heavy, exaggerated breath as he tossed the pen on the table carelessly. "Fine, then someone's got to be lying to us. If you can clear your informant, then I'll considering questioning Mick. But I can't see why he would lie about something like this. There's no plausible motivation behind it."

Another minute carried on as he ended the call, claiming that he had something to take care of at that moment and he could call back later. Once the connection was severed he slammed the phone on the desk hard enough to rattle the wooden surface. Then leaned forwards to drop his head into his hands with his elbows propped on the desk, scrubbing his face harshly as anxiety became more apparent.

"That didn't go well."

Cooper looked up at her comment, a faint smirk in agreement ghosting his lips. He watched her close the office door before crossing the room to sink onto the couch placed near the desk, crossing her legs and propping the folder on her knees. "You have no idea." He retorted as he reclined in his own chair again. "Fickler's contact in Cardiff says that Katherine Rawson's grave hasn't been touched in years. No one has visited it since a week after the funeral, and the person who did visit it was a family friend named Alis Lloyd. Apparently she was one of the waitresses at the pub and became a kind of God-mother for Mick and Jenna. I'm going to have Penelope run that name through the systems once she arrives, just to validate the story. But aside from her twenty years ago, there have been no visitors to either graves or any reports of vandalism. In 2008 the cemetery had a problem with vandalism from some rebellious teenagers, but the Rawson's graves were never touched."

Beth frowned heavily, features contorting into confusion as she tried to find an explanation. No reported visits or vandalism simply didn't make logical sense. Someone must have been lying, that much was undeniable. The problem was that they couldn't determine who was trying to lead them in the wrong direction and why. Rais was the primary assumption, and Beth was sure his hands were tied in the mess somewhere. But there was a deeper trench to the recent predicament.

Instead of showing Cooper the photo she found immediately, she responded, "That doesn't make sense. Unless you think Mick lied to us…"

Cooper shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what to think, to be honest. He could have lied, or Fickler's contact could be leading us in the wrong direction because he's got some tie to Rais. I really just don't know which of the two sounds more plausible." He paused for a moment to close the lid to his computer and started collecting his notes in a single worn green folder.

Beth took that opportunity to voice a new scenario. "What if the groundskeeper and Mick aren't actually lying?" It sounded absurd before she said it, and afterwards she almost kicked herself for the ridiculousness.

However, it was the only option that explained the inconsistency. The groundskeeper could have been truthful in stating that the grave hadn't been tampered with. And Mick could have been honest about placing the last piece of his dragon in the coffin during the funeral. The only logical explanation, in the absence of other evidence, was that someone else removed it before the coffin was placed in the ground. As far as anyone else knew, the cloth was still in the coffin and the grave was never touched. When in actuality, the cloth was gone and someone had stolen from a dead woman during the funeral.

Of course, that was just speculation. Beth almost dismissed it instantly because there was no proof behind it. Because it would have meant that Rais had planned everything years before he even met Mick. There was a timeline to the events, and Rais didn't become a valid object in Mick's life until 2004. At least as far as they knew. Certain events in his past that they had come across sounded like the work of a setup, like someone was deliberately covering their tracks, yet they couldn't discern if that had anything to do with Rais.

Cooper ceased shuffling notes immediately, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise. He studied her for a moment before giving a short agreeing nod. "That actually makes sense. If someone took the cloth from the coffin before it was put in the ground, no one would know. That would be the perfect opportunity because once the coffin is in the ground, retrieving the cloth without disrupting the grave and gathering attention would be impossible. But that would mean our timeline is wrong, that Rais has been at this game for more than twenty years now."

"We don't know exactly how long Rais has been working in his own organization. It's possible that for whatever reason, he targeted the Rawson family in Wales, isn't it?"

He didn't reply for several moments, just dropped his gaze to the notes as he pondered wordlessly. When he finally spoke, it was in a similar uncertain tone that Beth knew meant he didn't quite believe it yet. "Possible, yes. Probable, that's an entirely different concept. Why would Rais target a small family in a small coastal town in Wales? Katherine was a musician and Marc was a private detective specializing in minor crimes. What would Rais have to gain from killing them?"

That was the dilemma. If Rais was behind the death of Katherine and Marc Rawson, then what did he gain from it? What was the reason? There wasn't one, and that was the problem neither Beth nor Cooper could solve at that moment.

Beth shrugged as she opened the folder propped on her knees, drawing the article and attaching photo to the front pointedly. "It's still a work in progress. But maybe this can help point us in the right direction." She replied as she leaned forward to slide the paper on the desk with a flip of her wrist. Cooper caught it immediately, dark eyes studying every inch of it in a matter of seconds. He gave a curious expression that prompted Beth to clarify. "Look at the name scribbled on the bottom corner. It's a signature, probably from the photographer who submitted it to the newspaper."

The older agent shuffled through the mess on his desk until he found a classic black handled magnifying glass. Beth was tempted to make a comment about the traditional stereotype that all detectives in some form have a magnifying glass lying about, or something concerning his age and eyesight, but decided against it. Normally she could throw small puns towards her teammates and not care, especially seeing as it was April Fool's Day, yet she couldn't find the motivation for such at the time. Instead she watched him place the photo beneath the circular lens, held inches from his face, and waited impatiently for his response.

"Cadwallader." He stated, pitch faintly higher as surprise drew his eyes back to her. "_H. Cadwallader?_ As in Harold Cadwallader?"

"I'm not sure. That is the only newspaper article on the internet that I could find. The library in Cardiff that posted it has been putting their older public documents online for the last five years. There could be others about the same thing on different newspapers, but I'm having a hard time locating them. If we could go to Wales and gain access to a few of the older libraries in Penarth and Cardiff…"

Cooper smirked as he interrupted, "Fickler isn't going to authorize a trip to Wales just so we can dig up some old newspapers. FBI doesn't have jurisdiction outside of the US, and we wouldn't even know where to begin. Nice try though."

Beth attempted to conceal a grin as she tapped her pen against her knee. The innuendos behind her words were quite clear. After reading about Wales on the internet in such lengths, and hearing the stories about his home both in London and Wales Mick tended to recite when he was tipsy on alcohol, Beth found a strange desire to see the country for herself. True, if they had access to the actual newspapers in Penarth or Cardiff than things could have gone much more smoothly. But there were only so many FBI resources they could exploit without disastrous repercussions.

"You can't fault me for trying." She quipped, jabbing a finger towards the page as she continued. "I don't think that's a coincidence. There's only been one mention of a man with the last name of Cadwallader involved in the Rais case. We all assumed it was an alias because there is virtually nothing else but the name connected to it. Maybe we were right. What if the name of the guy in the CIA file Penelope hacked all those months ago is the same person who took this picture. Professional photographers tend to put their signature on their work, just like artists. Especially if they sell it."

"This dates back to the night that the Rawson's were murdered though. If Cadwallader is an alias and a professional photographer, than why would the CIA have a redacted file on him? Where could he be hiding after he took this photo twenty years ago?" Cooper questioned.

Beth offered a shake of her head in defeat. "That's the million dollar question, isn't it? Cadwallader could be a CIA informant that they covered up, or a rogue threat they got rid of to protect their own asses. Whatever he was, he doesn't exist anymore. At least not in any context we can find. If we want to find the mysterious cousin who had his finger chopped off and sent to us, I think we'll find out who this guy was or is at the same time. That's bound to piss off the agencies trying to shut us out even more."

"As long as they don't physically make a move against us, I really couldn't less how pissed off we make them."

The buzz of Cooper's cell phone against the desk interrupted their conversation in a heartbeat, temporarily drawing their attention from the problems at hand. Cooper checked the caller ID as he set the article on the desk, a quick surprised expression falling on his features again. He wasted little time in answering, then placed the device on speaker and propped it against the pencil holder on his desk.

"I didn't expect your call again until five." He stated, slightly louder than the casual tone he had used with Beth.

"I wasn't planning to call until later, but something's happened." Gina's voice answered through the speaker, muffled over the distant ring of few sirens and what sounded to be a mass of people. She sounded shaken, scared and nervous and angry, similar to the times she was worried and infuriated at Mick for his tendency to find trouble. The background noises were enough to give them a general idea that something had gone terribly wrong on their vacation.

Beth slid the pen and file onto the cushion beside her in an instant, rising from the seat to round the desk and stand beside Cooper worriedly. "Gina, please tell me he didn't get himself killed or something." She spoke before Cooper could open his mouth, staring at the phone pointlessly.

"No, it's not like that." She answered with a heavy exhale. "We're at a department store, buying some things for the beach later, and he was acting weird. Weirder than normal, actually. He said that someone was following us, but it wasn't the CIA operatives. They were too good at staying hidden because I didn't even realize it until he said something. When we got outside, he found the guy and started chasing after him. But the guy led him into oncoming traffic…"

"Is he alright? Do you need us to be there?" Cooper interrupted urgently, leaning towards the phone as fear drew on his face.

"He's fine. The medic said he's just bruised and scraped. They wanted him to get checked out by a doctor to make sure the bruised ribs aren't going to be a problem later. But he's refused and nothing I say will convince him." She stopped to draw another breath as her voice cracked faintly; anxiety clearly carried her imagination too far. "He was hit by damned _car_ and just walked it off. I mean, who the hell does that?"

"Gina, you need to calm down." Beth replied sternly, sincere despite the pressing desire to slap Mick for his stubbornness. Gina started to argue, but she gave no room for such as she continued. "You said he's okay. If he wasn't, I'm sure you would know. Other than Sam, you know him better than he knows himself."

There were a few moments of silence over the speaker, only the fading background and the distinct sound of boots against concrete leaving the scene. "I thought I did." Gina mumbled into the phone tiredly. "Can you have Penelope run a name through all available databases?" Cooper rummaged through the clutter of his desk, retrieving a pen and a piece of scrap paper as he agreed and asked her to continue. "He kept calling the guy _Lucas Baines_. It seemed like he knew him, but he won't tell me how or why. The guy disappeared onto the highway, and we haven't mentioned it to the local PD yet because I don't know what the hell to tell them. We don't have any kind of weight here over the local authorities because we're just on vacation."

"Baines? You're sure?" Beth questioned as Cooper caught her eye. They shared a silent exchange of understanding in those few seconds. Katherine Baines married Marc Rawson almost thirty years ago. Her family lineage carried the name _Baines_, and if the man Mick chased had the same last name and Mick seemed to know him, than it was safe to assume that the man was a relative. None of the cousins they had mapped were named _Lucas _though, and none of them were over the age of thirty five. It was possible that the cousin was still unknown to them yet. But a name was so much more than anything else they had put together.

"Was he missing a middle finger?" Cooper added quickly.

"Yes, he was and yes, I'm sure Mick said _Baines._" Gina didn't need to say more than that. The rest became painfully apparent.

The man with the missing finger, with DNA that proved without a shadow of a doubt that someone in Mick's direct family was working with a monster, was in Florida with them. Judging by his actions, he wasn't there to reconnect with family either.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! Hello! Wow, it's been a while since I've posted anything. My sister is supposed to be released from the hospital on Thursday, so things have been a bit hectic while we've been getting things ready for her to come home. Also, I've been working on a Halloween one-shot. It's going to be the longest one-shot I've written for Intermission, and hopefully I'll have it finished just in time for Halloween. There will be other small one-shots in the mean time, I promise.  
Now, about the chapter…  
Basically, this is a lot of setup again. I needed to give a lot of history on Mick because it's important to the storyline. And I needed to tie a few strings together to further the mystery. Please note that I don't live in Wales, and I have unfortunately never been to the UK. So I used Google to the best of my ability to make the history seem real. Anyways, Cadwallader is a crucial part to all of this and the photo with his signature at the bottom means quite a bit. The information about the two families helps with the identification of the man Mick was chasing, and it'll help them narrow down who he is exactly.  
So, I think that covers it for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	10. Hold My Tongue

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 10 Hold My Tongue

_Lucas Baines._

That name was just another elusive fragment to the mystery encompassing the Rais case. It meant everything in the scope of things, held the key to so many answers no one could have ever anticipated, yet remained just out of reach.

Whoever he was chose to toy with us rather than risk confrontation. He didn't _want_ anyone else to know who he was following or why. But he left himself open for a split second, accidental or not, and that was all the time needed for Mick to notice him. Admittedly, he was skilled in silent pursuit. Not in the same manner as what Mick and I had seen in the CIA agents tailing us for the past several months, though. It was more stealthy, invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for, and relentlessly dangerous.

The questions surrounding the name were virtually unsolvable. At least, not while Mick and I was in Florida to attend Ariel's wedding and family reunion. Who _Lucas Baines _was, why he was following us, why he led Mick into oncoming traffic, and why Mick had the absurd idea to follow; we couldn't know those answers. Rather, _I _couldn't know them.

Obviously, that pissed me off to no end.

We had no resources in the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office, as well as no way to pressure our way into their investigation. They were going to open an official report and if Mick or I saw the man again, we were to call the Sheriff's Office and file the event through the proper channels. Of course, _if _we saw the man again I wasn't going to report it. Especially after realizing that the man probably had some tie to Rais's organization. The less people who knew about it, the safer we would be from the prospect of persecution of sticking our noses into something we should have no part in. There was no joint operation I could influence because we weren't on any kind of case, and therefore had no jurisdiction. We couldn't tell them we suspected the man was from a terrorist organization the world has been trying to shut down for more than twenty years. That would have only complicated matters further. Instead our only safe choice was to play the victim. It wasn't ideal, and Ariel seemed to have trouble with it, but Mick and I carried the lie without too much fuss.

The driver to the car that hit Mick was locked in the back of a police cruiser after failing a breathalyzer test. She was completely wasted on the six empty bottles of beer the police pulled from her car, which only forced the police to believe our story more than hers. There was one other man we had to convince though.

Supposedly the lead detective, Miles Frazier, was going to call Fickler and verify our credentials before allowing Mick, Ariel, and I to leave the scene. Unfortunately that was taking _forever_. Hence my disdain for ridiculous bureaucracy between agencies. Apparently when three FBI agents get involved in a seemingly simple car accident with multiple witnesses, and they weren't working some kind of classified case in the state at the time, it was procedure to doubt nearly everything they said.

Frazier was an unpleasant heavyset southern man in his mid-forties, slightly shorter than me but significantly larger in posture, sandy blond hair thinly cut to standard navy regulations and an unwavering disposition about him that made me uneasy. He must have had a bad experience involving the FBI once before, probably regarding another team that took jurisdiction of a past case, which resulted in his blatant distrust towards us. I could also deduce that he was in the navy at some point, seeing as some of the traits in movement and attire were quite similar to my own father, and the sternness in his southern tone was almost unbearable.

If I hadn't been overstressed with worry and adrenaline, I would have addressed the matter. However, we were already on thin ice and I had no desire to risk the rest of my day at the local station because I pissed off a lead detective. It wasn't worth the feeling of pride that would have followed.

I grew impatient shortly after giving my statement to an officer. Worry for Mick's health and adrenaline from the recent events portrayed itself with the ill-disguised anxious tug of my necklace. It was a subconscious habit I developed when I was a child, and I lost count of how many necklaces I've broken over the years because of it. The feel of the warm thin chain against skin and the pendant beneath my fingers was distracting, yet allowed my thoughts to gather as rhythmically as the motion itself.

The scene was separated into two equal halves. First being the outside with witnesses giving statements to officers and curious onlookers pooled behind the yellow crime scene tape circling the area. The second was far more crowded though. It didn't seem like so upon first glance, but after counting the number of police on scene to handle the crowd of spring break students, the tow truck loading the woman's car onto a flatbed for transport to the impound lot until things were settled by a judge because apparently this wasn't her first time drinking and driving, and the multiple other vehicles scattered around, I realized just how much commotion we had inadvertently created.

It wasn't intentional, and if Mick would have just been rational than none of it would have happened. But the consequences were just as troubling as the main event itself.

I couldn't blame Mick for the incident. Well, I _could _have blamed him for running into the street after a man that he seemed to be protecting by refusing to discuss who he was with anyone. Yet I didn't see the point in doing so. He didn't have to tell me who the man was or how he knew him in any way. I already called Cooper and Beth to give them the name and description. They were still running through data to see who may have delivered a piece of Mick's history months before and how they managed to do so, and a single crucial name was the best lead they had. It wouldn't have been long before they uncovered something pertaining to the clues. Cooper was known to keep his promises to a fault, so when he promised to call me with the information as soon as they found something plausible, I had no reason to doubt him.

Thirty minutes passed in silent pacing. Honestly, I wasn't even sure _why_ I was pacing other than to keep myself busy. I couldn't talk with Frazier because he was discussing something on his cell phone just out of earshot. Waiting for the order to leave the scene was gnawing on my nerves like a feral animal. Ariel was leaned against the back passenger door of her car parked nearby, her own cell phone pressed to her ear and expression tight as she tried to calm our father. Knowing him, he must have overreacted when Ariel explained why we wouldn't be arriving to the vacation home until later than expected. At that point, I really was reconsidering bringing Mick to the home.

In his defense, he couldn't have known that he was going to be hit by a car. Chasing after the mysterious _Lucas Baines_ wasn't going to end well. That was apparent from the beginning. However, no one could have anticipated that a car was just around the corner and Mick was going to run into it. Except _Baines_, perhaps.

Mick had shown his penchant for luck again. Out of all the injuries he was likely to sustain from the collision with the hood of the car, minor to moderate bruises and scrapes was certainly not my first impression. Regardless of his claims that he was fine once he caught his breath again, an ambulance arrived with paramedics to finalize the assessment. It wasn't only for legal procedures either. They parked just inside the police perimeter, and the older paramedic gave Mick little time to argue before leading him to the open back and onto a gurney. Mick had rolled and forced his muscles to relax when he hit the car, jumping to avoid major damage to his legs, which seemed to work in his favor. Several bruises along his ribs were painful and already darkening, more along his left side and spreading to his lower back coincided with the seeping road burn on his cheek and arm that had to be cleaned and covered. The lead paramedic assured me that he was physically well enough to avoid a trip to the local ER. But he didn't _know_ Mick like I did.

It may have seemed that he was fine now, but once the bruises fully set and the adrenaline ebbed away completely, he was going to realize just how hard he hit that damned car and pavement. Bruises always worsen with age. Likewise, Mick's tendency to disguise injury meant that I was less trusting when he grinned and tried to reassure everyone that he was fine.

During my contemplative pacing, I made my way towards the back open ambulance doors. The storm clouds overhead were darkening in warning, and I could have sworn that I felt the first trickle of a raindrop on the back of my hand moments before. Spring rain storms were common in Florida, something accompanied with thunder or lightening, and I was expecting nothing less. The chances of spending time on the beach later that night were entirely dependent on the weather and Mick's health. Neither of which gave the impression of such as the minutes ticked by.

"Sir, it would really be in your best interest to get a thorough exam at the local ER. Just to be on the safe side of things. It's only about twenty minutes away from here, and we can get you there in ten with the sirens on." The paramedic's voice was sincere and urgent as I came within earshot, almost impatient as he rustled with something in a bag at his feet. He was older than Mick or I by a few years, thin with dark hair slicked back and more than one tattoo of a spider web and snakes running down his neck and disappearing into his white and blue uniform, as well as on his forearms. More than likely, given his speech pattern and tattoos, he had been part of a local gang during his youth and chose the job as a paramedic to make amends for his past actions.

I rounded the corner just in time to see Mick shoot the other man a harsh expression, an argument clearly on the tip of his tongue. He appeared to be fighting with his shirt, seeing as he only managed to get one arm into the sleeve and the other hung behind his back and out of reach. The gray undershirt was wrinkled where he had slid it over himself without help from the paramedic, his hair in the usual state of disarray, and the small thin bandages once covering the scrapes on his cheek and hands were nowhere to be seen. The paramedic had used a waterproof antibiotic substance on the scrapes, much like a liquid bandage because he probably anticipated us following routine like so many others as far as the nearby ocean, and apparently Mick didn't think there was a need for a physical bandage. Regardless of what he _thought,_ it was necessary to accept help when needed.

Mick noticed my presence within a few seconds. He relaxed minutely, forcing a grin in relief as he groped for the arm sleeve behind him again. "Gina! Great timing, darling. Please tell this twit that I'm fine." He sounded rather enthusiastic and excited to see me again, even though I had only been gone for half an hour, but the insult to the paramedic was uncalled for. I knew he was just frustrated because the older man was persistent. That didn't justify his behavior though.

"I would if I believed it." I replied as I climbed in the back of the vehicle and sat on the end of the gurney beside him. After a hesitating moment, I reached for the arm sleeve he was struggling to grasp and began to ease his arm into it. His movements were stiff and precise, and I knew that meant he was disguising just how painful the bruises really were.

The must have seen the movements. He stopped rustling with his bag and turned to me with a frown. "Maybe you can convince him. I noticed the surgical scars along his spine during the exam to make sure he didn't have any broken ribs, and the bruising from the accident on his lower back is parallel to a section of the scar. It would be better if he gets that checked out by a doctor just as a precaution. I've seen people with previous spine injuries become paralyzed years after because something snaps during the car accident. Most of the time they don't even realize it until days later because it hangs on by a thread. I'm not trying to scare or pressure you into doing anything; I just think it would be best if he would see someone about that. Obviously you two are close, so maybe you can convince him…"

"I'm right here, ya know." Mick interrupted sharply, waving his free hand in emphasis. "And what ever happened to patient confidentiality?"

The other man shrugged as he retorted simply, "I'm not a doctor."

He was absolutely correct though. Mick had been known to have back problems due to a previous injury he sustained in Iraq years ago. I had seen the outcome of such months before, had convinced him to see a proper doctor because it got worse than it had been in years, so I understood the medic's concern. It was frightening to hear the possibility of such a detrimental problem, and I couldn't help but stare at the other man with a shocked and terrified expression.

"I'll give you two a few minutes to talk it over." The older man stated as he gathered his bag and climbed out of the ambulance, rounding the corner to lean against the side and out of sight.

"Maybe he's right." I stated quietly, tucking the sleeve of his shirt into place and reaching for the top button. He tried to push my hands away in stubbornness, but I slapped them back to his lap with a pointed glare. "You did get hit by a _car_, Mick. People don't just get up and walk away from that unscathed."

The Welshman shrugged tensely and offered a toothy grin in hopes to defuse the situation. "Yeah, but I've got nine lives. Somehow keep managing to come back, just for you, eh?"

Stubbornness had always been a trait I secretly admired to a fault. Mick wasn't going to the local ER unless drugged and forced or severely injured. Neither of which were ample options. The only thing I _knew_ he would agree to was surveillance on my part. If he wanted to stay away from nagging doctors, he had to be honest and compliant with me.

A smirk tugged at my lips and I shook my head at the familiar flirting tone to his accent. Despite his efforts, that didn't make me less frustrated or annoyed or worried towards him. However, it was a start in the right direction. "You're not a cat. One of these days your luck is going to run out. And I would rather see the world end than watch something happen to you again." That was probably more personal and true than I ever intended to admit aloud. Judging by his stare and the sudden empathy portrayed in his features, he understood what I meant without more of an explanation. "I'll bail you out of the trip to the hospital just this once. But only if you promise to be honest with me. Hiding an injury like what the medic is worried about could kill you. So if you wake up tomorrow morning and notice something wrong, you tell me immediately."

He nodded briefly in acceptance, seemingly to mull the words silently as his grin returned. After a few more buttons that closed his shirt, I paused and motioned for him to finish. Once I stood from the gurney and reached for his jacket on the empty seat behind him, he replied quietly, "That's the sincerest thing I've ever heard, darling." He paused for a moment as I slid the jacket over his shoulders, adjusting the sleeves so he could get his arms into it easily. "For what it's worth, I only ran after Baines because he was a danger to you and your sister. He was stalking us for a while and I was worried he was working for Rais. If Rais has got people following us to Florida…"

"Then he could use that to separate us from the team and make his next move." I finished the sentence with a heavy sigh, sinking onto the gurney once more and gripping the edges as anxiety began to formulate a tension headache.

Technically the prospect of being separated from our teammates as some part of Rais' master plan was perfect. They wouldn't have been able to make it to Florida from DC in less than twelve hours. Mick and I had no jurisdiction in Florida at the moment. And the only people we could rely on were my family, which wasn't entirely comforting seeing as we rarely ever agreed on anything. Rais didn't want to kill Mick, for reasons still unknown to all, but he had no problem in maiming him or someone close to him. _Lucas Baines _could have been a trap to lure Mick and I into something potentially deadly.

So how did Mick know the name?

He wasn't going to tell me because he thought he was _protecting_ me. But I didn't need _protection. _If anything, he should have been the one staying out of the sunlight until we solved the Rais case. Of course, he couldn't live in a sealed home for the rest of his life. After what happened to his sister after our last case in Alaska, he would have rather risk his life in the limelight and chase Rais himself than hide anymore.

"You're not going to tell me how you knew the name _Lucas Baines_, are you?"

Mick finished the last button on his shirt as he glanced up at me, shaking his head slightly in response. "It's better if you don't know, at least until I can confirm it later." I attempted to interrupt, but he continued with a quick nod at the open doors. "There's too many potential witnesses around now. I told you that I would explain things later, when we're alone on the beach and there's no chance of someone overhearing us. By the time we get to the beach, it'll be late and I should get confirmation from my contact in Interpol."

Patience. He was telling me to be _patient_. Under any other circumstances I wouldn't have found that frustrating. But I was in no mood for cryptic innuendos. I wanted answers to everything pertaining to the Rais case, as well as what Mick was hiding. Not excuses to bide time.

"You do realize that I'm more than capable of protecting myself. Whatever Rais plans, and whoever this guy _Baines_ is, we'll figure it out before they make their next big move."

Mick didn't appear convinced. He formed a frown at my words, dropping his gaze to the floor of the ambulance in refusal to meet my eyes. His posture spoke of uncertainty and negativity, as if he honestly didn't think we were going to find the answers to all of the mess Rais scattered through life. While it was an understandable humane reaction, it was a bit uncharacteristic for him. Moreover, his words were dejected and indecisive amongst themselves.

"They already did, and I don't think we can stop them like we did to Surkov."

* * *

Fifteen years ago, for three hundred and sixty five days, _home_ was a pristine vacation house with an amazing view of the ocean. It had been in the LaSalle family since my great-grandparents on my father's side moved from France sometime in the late eighteen hundreds, after my great-grandmother received a small fortune for finding some priceless lost art and returning it to the_ Louvre Museum _in Paris. They died forty years after their immigration, with four children and a pet dog named _Isa_ that, according to my grandfather, still roamed the grounds at night in search of her owners. Out of the four children, the youngest was born in the United States. However, she died on the grounds at the age of twelve due to a fall down the second floor staircase which broke her neck.

I've never believed in _ghosts_ or _haunting spirits_, but the house did have an unusual feel about it that I couldn't explain. As if someone else was in the home, just around the corner and out of eyesight, yet I couldn't be sure if that was just my imagination in league with the stories I was told in my youth or if it was actually something concrete.

It stood three stories tall on a private section of the beach, resembled a historic early nineteen hundreds tropical mini-mansion with stilts holding the rear of the home on the sand, and was undeniably the largest home I have ever lived in. The paved driveway looped towards the front entrance in a half circle, palm and other hardwood trees drooped overhead as a canopy, flowers and shrubs lined the edges in a stretch of brilliant colors concurring with the season. All of which had been cared for by my mother or aunt as a hobby. Few animal and cherub statues still stood in portions of the garden. Allegedly my great-grandmother crafted every single one by hand in her spare time over the course of roughly forty years before her death. There was a garage on the far right just big enough for two vehicles to park side-by-side comfortably. As well as a handcrafted wooden path that led from the back of the home to the beach. Upper windows on the second story were either a stained glass or painted in places to fit the tropical theme of the home. New outside additions as of the nineteen nineties consisted of a hot tub on the roof in the enclosed potted water garden, and a patio set in the back with exquisite wire-frame furniture and vibrant plush cushions.

Everything changes with time, including vacant homes. Weather would have eroded the outdoor furniture, so it was put in storage before we left the state for California. Interior furniture had been covered with sheets or plastic. Linens and towels were sealed in boxes in storage with the outside furniture.

The hot tub had been drained and covered, the potted plants in the garden planted in the ground in hopes that they would survive or used as fertilizer. Windows were boarded as a precaution for hurricanes, sunlight that could have bleached the curtains, and any teenagers or thieves that wanted to vandalize the building. A metal gate spanning the property had been installed during our time in the house and I was surprised to see that the lock was still intact after so many years.

Unfortunately the price of abandonment for fifteen years meant a corpus amount of dust.

My aunt, Helen Clark, and mother worked with my cousins to clean the home spotlessly a few days before Mick and I arrived. They had been planning the wedding and reunion for weeks, and the time finally came to prepare the home with new linens and towels and necessities.

Furniture had been cleaned and the home had been dusted from top to bottom. Aunt Helen's piano was re-tuned and sat in the living room corner. The couch and recliners were comfortable shell beige in contrast with the wooden frames, the coffee table a hand carved hardwood scuffed and stained with age in places. Lack of a television in the room was simply to divert attention from such and focus on spending time with family. But I was assuming one of Helen's sons brought their own laptop computer with him. There was internet because it was necessary for my father's work, so the laptop computers Mick and I brought were going to be useful.

The rooms were spacious and elegant. Outdated appliances in the kitchen had been replaced with new because several no longer functioned properly. Six bedrooms decorated in various forms of tropical themes, four bathrooms with both a classic claw foot relaxing tub and a shower, one basement game room complete with a poker table, a library with rows of bookshelves lined with ancient books originating from two generations before, an attic filled with old junk my sister and I used to play in, a fully stocked wine cellar and pantry, and a beautiful roof garden to enjoy the night stars gave more than enough room for family.

As far as I knew, the Sykes family had their own vacation home nearby. Ariel followed tradition and decided to spend her nights at our vacation home instead. Therefore we had to account for Aunt Helen's family of three sons and her husband, Uncle Clyde and his wife, both grandparents on my mother's side and my grandmother on my father's side, as well as any other family members that arrived late over the next several days.

Basically, the house had been renovated to fit the madness that was the LaSalle family. And I doubted it was going to be similar to what I remembered.

By the time Ariel parked her car in the driveway of the home, it was just before five o'clock. The sun was still high in the sky, casually bright through my sunglasses perched on my nose and the canopy above, and the smell of seawater and surrounding plants was quite memorable. Cars in the drive hinted that Aunt Helen was most likely inside, as well as my parents and few cousins. Which meant the late teenage arsonist and cousin, Leo Clark, was inside too.

We gathered our purchases from the trunk and headed towards the front entrance without a word between us. Unfortunately Ariel was either still angry with me over our little _disagreement_ at the store earlier, or she was simply trying to wrap her mind around everything that had just happened hours before. Whichever was irrelevant, honestly. It still carried the silence between all of us into a thick and uncomfortable haze, and the passing seconds without conversation were unbearable.

There was still time to get to the beach before dinner with the family, and I was certain Mick wanted a distraction from the onslaught of questions and glares just as much as I did. If it meant answers and a decent conversation with him that wasn't overshadowed with prying curiosities from others, I would have done anything. Well, _almost_ anything.

Climbing the few concrete stairs, slowing my steps as the familiar crunch of sand slipped beneath my boots, I steeled myself for the approaching spiel of worried ranting my father was bound to deliver as soon as we entered the home. Ariel did mention that he wasn't pleased with the recent turn of events, and somehow I _knew_ he was going to blame Mick for everything if given the chance. Not because he was a bad man, but because he was a father who was horribly overprotective of his children.

The porch was a mixture of concrete and wood. Railings were old and ragged, paint chipped away with age and few loose rungs were obviously a safety hazard. A screen was installed over the stained glass door for protection against vandalism and bugs. Similar to the few upper windows, the bird in the center and surrounding vibrant seashells were fading with age. The concrete slab beneath was weathered, stretching from one side of the front wall to the other some twenty feet away. Comfortable chairs and small tables with cigarette ashtrays placed near the wall and spaced between windows were clearly meant for family members with a nicotine addiction. The few dead cigarettes already smashed in a tray suggested someone had put it to good use.

Ariel led the way inside, holding the door open just long enough for us to slip inside. The first words out of her mouth announced our arrival, and I grimaced at the sound of quick approaching footsteps. Framed photos that had once lined the walls were in the process of being hung again, and the boxes strung about against the walls brought back the pleasant memories of our time in the home.

It didn't take long for both parents and Helen to surround us. Bags were taken from our hands and stacked on the couch in the living room. Helen shouted for her oldest sons, Shane and Dustin, to take the bags to the respective bedrooms upstairs. Apparently Ariel and I were going to share one, while Mick was paired with Leo. There were no doubts that arrangement wasn't going to work. Ariel drifted upstairs to assist, seeing as she hated the prospect of someone else touching her laundry. Oddly enough, I could agree with her on that subject.

Mick and I were led into the kitchen without conversation. My father was pushed out of the room by both my mother and Helen, who was two seconds away from wringing Mick's neck out of anger for his reckless endangerment of Ariel and I. Technically, we weren't in any danger. Neither of us had been hit by a car, and _Baines_ didn't seem like the type to go after one of us with a weapon. Of course, none of us told my mother or Helen about the mystery man. I had made it very clear to Ariel that she couldn't tell them. She seemed to buy the excuse that it could have had roots to a current classified case Mick and I were working before we left. So Helen and my mother were just trying to get the complete details from me.

A green and blue marble top kitchen island occupied the center of the kitchen. Stools beneath one edge were spread from one end to the other. On the island itself, a ceramic bear cookie jar was left open and a cooling rack of fresh chocolate oatmeal cookies filled the room with a wonderfully familiar smell. The sink held the mixing bowl and utensils; flour still dusted the counter-top nearby in places. Considering the oven timer was still ticking, the last batch was still cooking.

Two stools from beneath the kitchen island were pulled out as Mick and I were ordered to sit. I didn't even try to argue because it would have been futile. After a quick nod at Mick to signify that it was okay, I slid on the stool and twiddled my thumbs in my lap anxiously. "There is a very good explanation for why we're late…" I broke the silence between us as I snagged a cookie from the rack.

Helen was two steps behind my mother, purposefully lingering back as to observe us curiously. I hadn't seen her in some time, but the short brunette hair and handmade shell jewelry hadn't changed. Nor had her love for brightly colored sundresses just above her ankles and heeled sandals. For a woman in her late forties with three nearly adult boys, she didn't carry the same amount of lines on her face as my parents. There was a history of tragedy in her family, especially after she lost her three year old daughter sixteen years ago, yet she did her best to hide the appearance of such from others. I knew she worked at a hospital in Tampa, but she never mentioned more than that.

She busied herself with cleaning the bowl in the sink as my mother jabbed a finger at Mick and questioned sharply, "Did the paramedic say you could leave, or did she bail you out of a trip the hospital?"

Mick blinked in surprise at her relentless tone, glancing at me with wide eyes as if to ask for my help. I chose to nibble on the cookie instead, avoiding eye contact with the older women in the room. He had been _bailed out_ by me. But we had an agreement already in place. His movements since the collision with the car had been wary and painful, and I knew the bruises were beginning to settle by the way he carried himself. Realistically, there was virtually nothing a doctor could do about bruises unless they led to something more severe. So all he needed was a few hours with a hot compress, a bag of ice, and inactivity on the couch. Or the beach, if the living room became too crowded with curious relatives.

"It's just some bruises and scrapes." Mick answered nonchalantly, hesitating to reach for a cookie out of respect.

Helen turned towards us with a shake of her head and leaned against the sink edge. "I've been an ER doctor for the past sixteen years. Trust me when I say that people don't just walk away from a car accident unscathed." She paused to address my mother. "Cecelia, can you get a bag of ice and wrap it in a towel? Preferably a bathroom hand towel. And see if you can find a bottle of painkillers such as ibuprofen. Clyde should have a few leftover from when he broke his thumb a few months ago." Mother noted the timer on the oven before she left the room, leaving Helen to continue. "So, Gina, I haven't seen you since just after you graduated from the FBI academy. I take it Mister Rawson is a teammate on your Red Cell team?"

I handed Mick a cookie from the rack, watching his shoulders sag as he propped his elbows on the counter-top and an appreciative grin traced his features, then answered with a brief nod. "Just teammates. I know mom and dad don't believe that, but it's true."

She shrugged and offered a diminutive smirk, waving her hand towards us in emphasis as she countered, "Can you blame them? I've only seen you two together for five minutes and even I know that's not entirely true. He looks at you with those big puppy eyes and you practically know what he's asking or saying without a single word spoken. That, kiddo, is quite telling to everyone else." She pushed herself away from the sink as the oven timer buzzed, grabbing the nearest oven mitt on the counter to shield her hand in the process of removing the cookie pan from the oven. "Not to pry or press anything, I'm just stating the obvious."

No sooner had the words left her mouth and the cookie sheet slid on the glass stove top, than a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. It echoed off the walls from the second floor, horrified and distinguished as originating from Ariel, following a series of curses and stomping steps running up the stairs. Helen was already out of the room before I could jump off the stool. Through the stomping and curses and shouts, Ariel clearly said something about a snake. Judging by Leo's shouts for her to stop, she found his pet snake in her bedroom and panicked.

I sank back onto the stool with a heavy sigh once I realized that it wasn't something Mick or I needed to get involved in. Mick relaxed minutely and elbowed my arm gently to grasp my attention. "The next nine days are going to be interesting, eh darling?"

_Interesting _didn't even begin to accurately describe it.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back!  
So, there was a lot of important detail in this chapter. Firstly, I needed to introduce a new character that has meaning later. Detective Frazier will be a pain in the ass more than he already is later. The paramedic will most likely come into play again later too. Mick finally admitted that he was hiding something, only not in such an obvious manner. He's got a contact in Interpol giving him information from their end, and that will be expanded as the story progresses. As for Gina's worry about Mick, I don't have any intention of hurting Mick more than already done until towards the end. I know that sounds twisted… Anyways, the second part describes the house. Originally I was going to write it so that Gina's parents fell into some money and bought it. But I think having the home directly tied to old great grandparents works better. It gives me more room to play. Also, I introduce her aunt Helen. I think she's interesting, and she's got a crucial purpose as the story goes on. Leo Clark, Gina's arsonist younger cousin, is interesting too. I'm eager to see what I can do with him.  
I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	11. Regrets Always Work

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 11 Regrets Always Work

The most common mistake of current society is the assumption that everything can be learned or found using the internet. People, mostly the young generation, tend to lean on the internet for everything. It's their lifeline, their tether to the world, but sometimes that isn't enough. The internet does have an impressively vast expanse of information that is widely useful to the population, one that Beth found essential to their cases in the sense that people tended to put their entire lives on the internet. However, sometimes the information was not _enough_.

For instance, the Welshman in his thirties with a direct relation to the Baines/Rawson family, a missing middle finger, and last seen in Jacksonville Florida didn't _exist_.

Penelope Garcia tried to find some indication as to his existence. She delved into every available corner of the internet, every nook and cranny her impeccable hacking skills opened like a virtual door, every agency database she could worm into whilst remaining hidden in search for birth certificates or census records originating from Wales, and simply _could not_ find what they were looking for. Rather, nothing solid enough to confirm who _Lucas Baines _was or why he was in the United States.

Did that mean someone cleared any and all data pertaining to his existence, and if so, than how was that even possible? Was he a danger, or an ally? Did he work with or against Rais and his operation? Was Mick being truthful about the name, or was this some other lead only he knew and refused to tell anyone else for some unknown reason? Where they even looking in the right direction?

Answers for all of such were insoluble without more information. Without a plausible lead to run with, the team was left with only one option. Sensibly enough, it wasn't something any of them were particularly eager to do because it _felt _like a treasonous violation of privacy. Well, more than they already had.

Cooper rationalized that it was their only logical option left. The day was drawing to close, the sunlight beginning to dip beyond the horizon of downtown city buildings as six in the evening approached. Time and patience were fading, and worry began eat at them even more. Cooper reasoned that they had to identify who _Lucas Baines _was as soon as possible because he could have been a danger. He could have been working with Rais or on his own agenda, and either one could have led to deadly results for Mick and Gina. Therefore he did what was necessary, what he vowed to do for nearly eight years, regardless of the possible consequences from the CIA operatives following them.

The team was split and given two separate tasks hours ago.

James, Penelope, and Cooper stayed at the office with Nikola in search of more information. Awstin Baines, Katherine Baines' older brother who died tragically in 1987, was one of two siblings who could have had a son named _Lucas. _He had a wife who passed away in 1992, a thirty year old daughter who worked at a newspaper company in London, and two thirty three year old twin sons who owned a joint gaming company in Peterborough. There was no indication of another son named _Lucas, _but Cooper didn't want to take any chances.

Rais had links into almost everything, so it wasn't too farfetched to believe that if _Lucas _did exist, he could have kept him hidden from the world.

Prophet, Sabrina, Flores, and Beth were sent to the British Embassy just forty minutes from the office. Gwyneth Sayer reverted back to Gwyneth Baines a year after she divorced her husband and moved out of Wales to England. She hadn't remarried, for obvious reasons, and raised her three children as a single mother while working as a school councilor for the city of Lancaster. Luckily for them, she took a trip to the United States to visit a _friend_ working at the British Embassy starting on the twenty fifth of March. She had been staying with her _friend _since she arrived to the States, and stayed mostly in the embassy when they weren't seen together. He took her to different locations across DC, but it seemed as though she was intimidated by the bustle to venture out on her own. Her flight back to Blackpool before Lancaster was scheduled to leave at eleven o'clock at night on the first of April.

Meaning they had one opportunity to question her personally. Otherwise they would have had to rely on phone conversations, and those didn't tend to go as well as hoped when the person was on a different continent. It limited the amount of physical intimidation one could use to acquire the desired information, and the person had no reason to be honest or even to continue the conversation if they didn't like what they heard.

Beth had never seen the British Embassy before. She read about it during school, learned about the rules of jurisdiction the FBI had, or didn't, in league with the embassies across the United States. But she had only seen pictures of the compound, of the rod iron fencing spanning the radius and traditional old English architecture of every building that resembled a miniature palace in itself, as well as the beautifully lively garden and the brilliantly carved statues set amongst the grounds as a monument to so many. Never had she personally seen the compound with her own eyes. Pictures did well to relay the purpose and semblance, but that only carried her curiosity so far.

Cooper had given them specific instructions to follow once they reached the embassy. They simply couldn't _walk_ into the compound without revealing they were FBI, and why they were there to begin with. Someone would have called Fickler to verify before they were allowed access inside, and while Fickler did grant them permission to question Gwyneth Baines, the official channels would have left a trail for anyone else to follow. Which would have drawn more suspicion upon all involved.

Therefore, they had to be discrete.

Prophet parked his car in the nearest public parking lot he could find. Unfortunately it was five blocks away from the embassy and they had to traverse the rest of the distance on foot. That wouldn't have been a problem, especially since Beth desired the exercise after spending the majority of the day in a chair with a computer in front of her face, had it not been for the CIA operatives' two car lengths behind them. The parking lot was relatively crowded with cars of all sizes, the sunlight reflecting off every metal surface to blind them beyond their sunglasses, but it wasn't hard to discern when and who were tailing them.

Adeline and Carson disguised themselves as a happily chatting couple. They blended into the sparse amount of people on the street, unknown to others as to who they truly were, and Beth had to admit that the ruse was much more believable than any others they had done before. Carson no longer wore a suit; instead he replaced it with a pair of comfortable black slacks and blue button shirt. Adeline hooked her arm around his as they walked, her long green skirt ruffled just about the knees with each step and the matching blouse and shoulder length curly jet black hair seemed to capture Carson's attention more than the FBI agents. Her black leather purse swung off her shoulder, and Beth was fairly certain that was were she kept her gun. She emitted an aura of professionalism and skill, which was a bit unnerving when Beth realized that would have made her annoyingly more persistent on her own. A genuine smile crossed Carson's features from time to time as he talked with Adeline, a look of pure happiness in his eyes beneath the vigilance, and Beth had only seen that in people who honestly adored each other.

Such as her two younger teammates.

Prophet and Flores led the way, seeing as Flores apparently had been to the embassy once before so many years ago, whilst Sabrina and Beth lagged behind a few steps to talk amongst themselves quietly.

Sabrina was obviously fascinated by the DC city life. She questioned Beth about the buildings they passed, the occasional road construction vehicle that drove by, even the street signs and people, all in innocent curiosity. Wherever she and James had lived for the past several years clearly didn't have much foot traffic, and the sudden bustle of people and cars and city seemed to intimidate her a bit.

After answering a recent question regarding the blue and white sign for the nearest bus stop, Beth decided to approach a different and more serious subject. "Do you and James really hate Mick?" The question fell off her tongue in a matter of seconds, hushed and uncertain no matter how many times she had ran the scenario through her head. It was a reasonable question, she thought, because it was necessary. Because she had to know if James and Sabrina were helping them with the case in the name of justice against Rais, or if they held a grudge against Mick for his past actions.

James only referred to Mick as _Rawson_ and the amount of revulsion in his tone was evident enough. Sabrina was more skilled at hiding her disgust for the sniper. Beth would have missed the bitterness in her tone when mentioning him had she not been paying particular attention to the unexplainable instinct twisting in the back of her subconscious. Instincts were rarely ever wrong, so she had to question the uncomfortable truth to quell her own worries.

Sabrina faltered in her steps, furrowing her brow with a tight frown and a shake of her head. "I don't understand." She muttered in response. Realization spread across her face a few moments later, and she almost stopped in mid-stride completely as she clarified in a false sincerity Beth found troubling. "No, we don't _hate_ him. I would be lying if I said that I don't blame him for what happened to James, in all honesty I'm not the only one, but I don't necessarily _hate_ him. I just think that his luck finally ran out, and the rest of us were left to pick up the pieces because of it."

"He's still a good guy. " Beth retorted defensively. The desire to defend the younger man's name was understandable, she concluded instantly. Not because she had feelings for him in the same sense as what he and Gina tried to hide from the world, but because he was family. "Probably more so now than he was back then. Gina's really helped with that. She's kept his head on straight through all of this, and honestly, I don't think he would have lived through the last few years without her."

The other woman offered a small smirk as she replied, "So she's not like the other one night stands then, eh?"

"Not even in the slightest. Actually, I think he's given up on the one night stands since he started living with her. I still think there's more to that than they're letting on, but I have absolutely no proof whatsoever." Beth answered, pausing to drag the subject back to where it began. "I know you and James still think he's just some screwed up punk…"

"I never said he was." She interrupted quickly. A brief glance at the CIA operatives and Prophet and Flores just out of earshot followed a heavy sigh in defeat. Her accented tone dipped as she conceded hesitantly, "The Mick I knew, before he was shipped off to Iraq, was a smart-mouthed, arrogant, brilliant, yet very caring person. He used the persona of some arrogant _bad-ass_ to hide behind because that was what Liam taught him when they were living on the streets as children. But the truth is that he loved his family and his teammates, relied on them to be there forever no matter what happened through life. If he was truly a _bad_ man or a psychopath like you assume we believe he is than Liam's attempted suicide wouldn't have affected him in the manner that it did. He wouldn't have apologized so profusely to everyone and he wouldn't have begged for forgiveness. James may not have taken his words to heart, but I certainly did. Then again, James wasn't there to see his nervous breakdown when the family was told that Liam was essentially gone." Her words trailed away with a grimace at the memory.

Beth remained mute for several long moments, slowing in her steps as her imagination took the information and manipulated it into the most logical scenario possible. She had seen first hand the signs of a nervous breakdown with her father after the death of her mother and brother. Rather than picking himself out of it, he fell into alcohol and destroyed his life with Beth. Naturally, given her experience, she briefly imagined her youngest teammate in that same state. The problem with that was the knowledge that he went back to the SAS less than a year after Liam's attempted suicide. He wouldn't have been allowed to return to the SAS if he was mentally unsound, so the breakdown was probably not as bad as what she had seen over the months when he believed that he lost Jenna in a plane crash over a year ago.

A nervous breakdown of any kind was still troubling, no matter the severity, and Beth filed the information away as something to keep watch for in the future.

"We're here to help in any way we can, regardless of what we think of Mick." Sabrina stated as if she had rehearsed the line. "Cooper brought James back to me, although a bit different than before, and I owe him a dept for it. He asked for our help and I simply couldn't refuse. Not after everything he has done for us."

That was sincere, undeniable and correspondent to everything Beth knew about Sam Cooper. Yet Beth read between the lines, and the subconscious instinct told her that there was so much more to that explanation than Sabrina was willing to speak of.

* * *

Gwyneth Baines only minutely shared the same physical characteristics as her younger sister.

Beth had seen photos of Katherine Baines during her research over the past several hours. The woman was reasonably average height but thinner than expected, with which seemed to be one of the many traits she passed to her children, with long dark hair that was often photographed in a haggard ponytail or in a tight bun, and bright chocolate colored eyes filled with adoration and hope that Beth had never seen in her children before. In the photos she wore only the bare amount of jewelry and makeup to match her seasonal outfit for the day, but the cross pendant around her neck and the diamond ring on her left ring finger were always present. Her smile was infectious, so full of joy and excitement and raw emotion portrayed in one single action captured in a photo that clearly didn't do it justice, and Beth found herself smiling at it as well.

Because of those photos she had found, mostly in the few seemingly insignificant newspaper articles scanned onto the internet by a library in Cardiff, Beth assumed Gwyneth Baines would carry the same characteristics. They were sisters, although both lived in completely different sections of Wales for the entirety of their adult lives, and it was a decent assumption to believe they may have looked similar. Dark chocolate colored eyes and messy black hair seemed to be genetic in that family line, if her estimate was correct, so that was what she looked for.

Flores devised a plan to divert Carson and Adeline so Beth and Sabrina could talk with Gwyneth Baines without the pressing nervousness caused by their presence. Rather, she created the basics of the plan to lure them away from the others. Prophet decided to take the simple action of intimidation and turn it into something bordering on vandalism. He only mentioned the bright red lipstick Flores carried in her purse, the several permanent markers, the fire-red nail polish Sabrina carried with her, and the vehicle they had seen the CIA operatives exit earlier once. But it was more than enough to paint a basic description of what he had in mind.

If he was caught, he could have been arrested for vandalism, regardless of his position in the FBI. But if the plan worked, than the local sheriff, who apparently had worked with Flores during her FBI days in the past, would be arresting two CIA operatives violating federal law by working a live investigation on United States grounds. The charge would never stick and they would probably never see the inside of a jail cell, but it was message behind the action that spoke volumes. Beth wasn't keen on the plan, and she secretly hoped Flores could talk Prophet out of it before they made their way back to the parking lot. She didn't want to sound like a hypocrite because she did talk with Carson earlier that morning. However, in hindsight, perhaps that wasn't her wisest idea.

Penelope was able to determine, using the back records of the nearby traffic cameras, that Gwyneth Baines and her _friend_ left the embassy every evening at six thirty for dinner at one of the local restaurants. They left from the private parking lot, fenced in with tall rod iron fencing, and that was were they were going to wait.

Beth expected resistance when she and Sabrina waited in front of the embassy gates. She prepared a decent excuse for their presence should someone from security come out and ask for their identifications. However, no one bothered to confront them. The only people were the few on the other side of the gate who paid them little attention, the passing vehicles, and the scarce few pedestrians in the immediate area. Without Carson and Adeline in eyesight, Beth was able to relax just enough to feel confident.

They didn't have to wait long for Gwyneth Baines. She was spotted exiting the building and headed towards a fairly new silver sedan at exactly six thirty, like clockwork. Her attire of slacks, a long sleeved white and black pinstriped blouse, matching one inch heels and purse with jacket slung over one arm as she chatted with the man in stride beside her, gave her a very professional look. It was almost as if she had a job at the embassy, and the past week was the required interviews before the decision was finalized. Surprisingly enough, she hardly bared any resemblance to Katherine Baines. Her hair was long and draped over her shoulders, but instead of a black or even brown, it was a bleached white. Likewise, her eyes were more hazel than chocolate brown, and the lines of age and stress were much more established.

The man beside her hung onto every word spoken. He was relatively the same age, slightly taller and prominently larger in the shoulders, with short and spiky brunette hair dusted with gray and a grin on his features. Clearly he was the official employee, probably someone important to the embassy, given his black and gray suit and embassy tag pinned against a front pocket. More importantly, he was undeniably fascinated by Gwyneth.

Beth figured as much.

She drew a heavy breath before approaching the gate and waving her hand excitedly, hoping to capture the woman's attention. "Gwyneth Baines!" She shouted over the traffic noises, repeating it once more when the other woman didn't seem to notice. "Could we have a moment of your time please?" She asked as the older woman fixed her with a confused stare.

Gwyneth whispered something to the man, resting a hand on his chest for a brief moment with a nod, then crossed the distance with a hesitance in her step. "If you're from immigration, I have a registered and valid passport that allows me to be in the country…" She started as soon as she got within earshot, shuffling the purse on her arm to dig for her passport. Her accent was more English than Welsh, crisp and impatient and almost nervous.

"We're not from immigration." Beth interrupted with a reassuring expression, holding her hands against the bars in a show of innocence. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you have a few minutes to spare. It's very important to an investigation we're working on."

She studied Beth and Sabrina for a few moments, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to the side in wonderment. "FBI, yeah? The CIA has already questioned me just two days ago, so either you're new and didn't get the memo, or you're FBI. I have to ask, what does the FBI and CIA want with me?"

Beth caught Sabrina's surprised expression and matched it flawlessly. The CIA could have already questioned her, they had already prepared for such, but they didn't expect Gwyneth to be able to put the pieces together so quickly. Apparently impeccable deductive reasoning and perceptiveness ran in the genetics too.

"It concerns the Rawson family. Your nephew, Michael…" Sabrina began to explain.

"I'll tell you the same thing I told those other agents. No, I have no idea who killed Katherine and Marc. Nor have I seen or talked with their children since the funeral in Penarth. Before that, I only visited them once before when her son was about five years old and her daughter was a newborn for a family reunion. The reunion was held in Barmouth so I've never been to their home before it was destroyed." Gwyneth stated hastily.

Beth was taken back by the sharpness in her tone, and the moment of pause in response only worsened the tension between them. "He's in trouble." She blurted, watching the other woman blink at her. "We're working a case involving a man who we think may be a danger to him and everyone else. A finger was sent to our office for him to find months ago, and the DNA test confirms that the man is a cousin. He's in Florida right now with a teammate, and the man was supposedly seen following them. He called the man _Lucas Baines_, which means he knows who the man is but won't tell us."

"We need to know if you have a nephew or son named Lucas." Sabrina jumped to the point rather brazenly.

Gwyneth knitted her brow and swallowed compulsively, as if she was holding her breath in fear of responding. Beth took the sudden pale complexion and the fleeting stunned posture as a hint that they were headed in the right direction. Her suspicion was confirmed when Gwyneth closed the few foot gap between them and leaned close to the bars, forcing Beth to step back as she dropped her tone barely above a whisper. "That's impossible."

"So you have a son or nephew named Lucas?" Beth pressed.

"_Had_, as in past tense. Awstin had a son named Lucas, his first born son, who would be about thirty four now." She answered tentatively, running her finger nail against a rough edge of the rod iron fence in a portrayal of unease. "No one has heard from him since he ran away when he was fifteen. Everyone assumed he had enough of his home life after his mother turned into an alcoholic and just found his own way out. Either he lived with friends somewhere else until he turned eighteen, and then legally changed his name, or he managed to get himself killed and his body has never been recovered."

"Why would everyone else think he ran away? Wasn't there an investigation to find him?"

She chewed her bottom lip for a long moment before giving a halfhearted shrug. "There was for about two weeks. But Awstin's family had quite a bit of trouble over the years, and it wasn't too farfetched to believe that Lucas, being the oldest and most creative out of the children, managed to escape the hell they went through."

"And what kind of _hell_ was it?" Sabrina questioned. "From what we've gathered, Awstin died in 1987 and the family moved to a smaller town in the mountains afterwards…"

"It was during our family reunion, the very last time I saw Katherine and Marc alive with their children." Gwyneth conceded, her tone suddenly small with regret as she diverted her gaze to the fence. "The details as to what happened are a bit unclear. Everyone was busy with their own agendas, whether it was playing with the children or ogling over Katherine's new daughter, so no one person really knows what happened. Except, perhaps, Lucas." She paused once more to bide time, glancing at the man in the distance behind her as if she was afraid someone else would hear. "After Awstin fell out of the top floor window and died on impact with the concrete, Lucas claimed that he witnessed Marc push him out of the window. Marc of course denied it and there was absolutely no evidence of foul play. Lucas had a horrible tendency to lie about the damnedest things, so everyone dismissed it as another one of his lies for attention. But after that accusation, his mother wanted nothing to do with us. She took her children and moved, and I haven't heard one word from her since. It wasn't until Lucas went missing that I tried to contact them. I did talk to her second oldest son who explained what was happening, and the investigator on the case did stop by to question me because he had to be sure I wasn't hiding Lucas."

So Lucas Baines did exist at one point in time. Reported as a runaway at the age of fifteen, supposedly never found which led to the assumption that he died years ago, but _existed_ nonetheless. Although, he didn't exist in any context of the records Penelope could find. Including the Scotland Yard database she managed to get into. There was no record of a Lucas Baines in any case, but Gwyneth sounded positive that the people she talked with in charge of looking for him were from Scotland Yard.

Unless they weren't _really _Scotland Yard inspectors. That would have explained the lack of information anywhere. If Lucas Baines was working with Rais, than Rais could have hidden any trace of him because it would have led back to the world wide organization. How? With the assistance of false Scotland Yard inspectors to remove any possible traces anyone had to the teenager's disappearance. Those fake inspectors could have created a false report to fool those who bothered to ask questions for a while, and then pulled the information after the years passed and everyone stopped looking.

_Out of sight and out of mind. _A typical, simplistic, psychological manipulation expanded to fool anyone and everyone.

Beth frowned heavily at the revelation, feeling suddenly excited that they had something more concrete to run with, yet tense with worry at the uncomplicated nature as to how they achieved such a lead. It was too easy. Rais had years to perfect his plans, to make sure there were absolutely no variables that led back to him and his operations. But somehow they were able to find a name he probably went to extraordinary lengths to cover from the world.

No, that didn't quite make _sense_.

"Can you tell us what you remember about Lucas?" Beth questioned eagerly, teetering on her heels after a brief glance at Sabrina. "His personality, what he looked like, who his friends were…"

Gwyneth shook her head slightly, her shoulders sagging negatively. "Our family had been divided since Katherine moved to Penarth with Marc. We begged her to stay in North Wales with us, but Marc had a job in Cardiff and she couldn't say no to him. After the fight we had with them, Awstin grew distant from the rest of us. He and Katherine were always so much closer than I was with her, taught her how to play piano and encourage her to write music in her spare time, so I think it broke his heart when she left us for Marc. I was only allowed to see his family on the holidays, which was a relief at the time because it meant I could take my children away from their father for a few days. At that time, I was still living in Barmouth and he was living just south of Dolgellau, so it wasn't a very far drive to and from. But his wife, Elaine, was never very fond of us."

"There has to be something you remember about him." Beth urged as she wrung her hands together anxiously. "Something that always caught your attention, the type of lies he used to tell."

She tapped her fingers against the rod iron in thought for a few moments, and then nodded curtly. "There is something. Aside from the lies he used to tell, which were about anything and everything just to get him out of trouble, he used to have a handmade catapult. I think Awstin made it for him when he was about seven. At one visit, before the family reunion, I saw him shoot down a bird with it. When I yelled at him for it because he actually killed the bird, he just walked away to retrieve the bird out of the field. I told Elaine and Awstin about it, and they searched his room to find a box of dead birds he had killed over the past few weeks hidden in a loose floorboard beneath his bed. And when we searched the old shed he spent a great deal of time in, we found that he made a bow and several arrows and used it to kill a deer. We only found the deer's head, but the arrow was still lodged in its eye. That was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. They started to look for a psychologist that could help explain and cure his behavior, but then Awstin died and I don't know what happened to him after that."

One of the first signs of a psychopath, and eventually a serial killer, was the murdering and concealment of small animals. Over the course of her years as a FBI profiler, Beth had come to realize that the most disgusted minds all started relatively the same way. They found a fascination and comfort in the death of others, beginning with animals. That was how they grew confident to evolve their work onto humans. They killed the animals because it was enjoyable and thrilling, and kept them as trophies or reminders to relive that moment over and over until they grew bored with it.

Lucas Baines was obviously a psychopath. To what degree, Beth had no idea yet. But if she was right and he was still very much alive with a mission given by Rais, then Mick and Gina were in more danger than they had ever been in before.

"Call Cooper and tell him to have Fickler contact the Jacksonville FBI field office in Florida. We need to find Lucas before he gets to Mick and Gina again." Beth ordered in a whisper to Sabrina as she pulled her own cell phone from her jacket pocket. Mick and Gina were in danger, even during a vacation, and Beth felt the endless apprehension twist her stomach in knots at the thought. "Thank you for your help, Misses Baines." She offered her hand to the other woman through the bars of the fence, smiling tightly in appreciation.

Gwyneth shook her hand warmly, and then shuffled through her purse to reveal a small white business card. "Of course. If there's anything else, feel free to call my mobile. I leave for Blackpool later tonight, so you may have to wait until the plane lands. And if you find Lucas, I'd love to know. His mother and siblings deserve some closure and answers after all these years of believing he was dead."

Beth pocketed the card with a nod and waited until Sabrina drifted out of earshot with her cell phone pressed against her ear before she responded cautiously. "There's just one more thing that's been bothering me." She paused once more to watch the other woman give a quick nod in acceptance. "When we started looking for a cousin that could have been missing a middle finger with ties to the investigation, we came across something disturbing. I mean, I know it's probably none of our business, but Mick is a very well respected member of our team, like family, and it just bothered me when I learned that he had all these cousins and uncles and aunts but not a single one wanted anything to do with him or his sister after their parents died." She rambled for a moment, somewhat glad that the other woman read between the lines easily enough to intervene.

"We weren't really given a choice in the matter." She explained warily. "I may not have been a large part of Katherine and Marc's family in Penarth, but they were still my family. I was the second person she told after Marc when she found out that she was pregnant with her first son. She was so excited and ecstatic, but didn't know what to do or how to raise a child. I gave her the only advice possible, which was to be there for him no matter the occasion, have patience, and make sure he knew he was loved. She adored him and her daughter, and it broke my heart to see them crying at the funeral." Another brief pause spread between them compelled the raw sincerity in her tone.

"I don't know about anyone else in Marc's family, but I was given the option to adopt them. I honestly do regret not doing so now. At the time I was getting settled in Lancaster after a rather ugly divorce and my three children were having a hard time adjusting to their new life. I was at my rope's end, sort to speak, and I didn't think I could properly raise two more children on my own. It was a mistake on my part. Had I been a better mother, I would have been able to take care of them and my own children. Instead they were given to my mother in London. After her episode and she was institutionalized, I tried to step in. But the courts decided that foster care was a better fit for them. After that, I lost all contact with them."

Beth didn't know how to respond to that. Gwyneth _tried _to adopt them, _tried _to be there for them when they had no one left, but the courts decided against it. Meaning it wasn't a matter of neglect or carelessness like she anticipated. Someone else other than his schizophrenic grandmother _cared _and _tried _to help them. Unfortunately policy and politics won, and the children suffered because of it.

Mick probably knew that in some fashion. He probably knew that his aunt fought for him with the courts because she cared for him and his sister. But in the end, they were given to neglectful and abusive homes and all the fighting in the world on their behalf didn't make it better. In some way, he most likely associated that loss with the idea that his aunt didn't try hard enough. That if she truly cared for him and Jenna, she would have won the court fight and he would have lived with her and his cousins rather than with dangerous foster parents.

It wasn't nearly as one-sided as Beth pictured, but it was certainly more heartbreaking.

"Beth, we've got to go, now." Sabrina interrupted sharply, sliding her phone back in her purse. The tension in her posture and the worry in her tone was unsettling. Whatever conversation she had with Cooper didn't go as planned, obviously, and she wore the evidence of such on her features well. Something terrible had happened at the office. Beth could read that much. The biggest and most urgent question was what. "We've got to stop by a pharmacy on our way. Something's happened at the office and Cooper wouldn't tell me what it was. He just prattled off a list of supplies for us to gather and ordered us back immediately. I couldn't even get more than five words in before he hung up on me."

"What kind of supplies?" Beth asked directly.

"Gauze, alcohol, bandages, scalpels, scissors, long tweezers, a stitching kit, and something to combat a high fever from an infection. He said that Flores would know what to get in that area."

It didn't take long for Beth to realize what all of those supplies were commonly used for.

Someone had been shot.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back! First, I apologize for the wait. I think I may have opened too many projects at one time, and it's kept me quite busy.  
Anyways, about the chapter…  
I needed to get the last few crucial parts pertaining to who Lucas Baines was in the open. The scene with Beth and Sabrina at the beginning plays more into the storyline. It also gives a quick hint as to Mick's reaction when he lost Liam. That will probably get a one-shot of its own later. Second, I wanted to introduce a member of Mick's family to explain some things that were a bit peculiar with the Rawson family. She has a purpose later too, I promise. Lastly, but not least, the order from Cooper plays directly into the next Beth-centric chapter. It begs the question as to who may have been shot and with what. I won't give too much spoilers, but I will say that it'll be unexpected.  
Enough of my rambling. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! The encouragement is always prized.


	12. Tell Me The Whole Truth

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 12 Tell Me The Whole Truth

Mick Rawson claimed to be a _changed_ man because of Gina LaSalle. He declared himself as _better _and _honest _in comparison to his previous ways of life, all due to the fact that he had people who cared for his existence and well-being. Lies to his teammates had been minute and only necessary, at least in his views, and virtually nonexistent over the past year of living with Gina. Independence was an impossible trait to suppress completely, but it appeared to have dwindled into something more bearable. Attitude had subsided quite a bit, and he admittedly looked and felt better with her than he had in eight years. Sleep came more naturally, trouble was beginning to find him less and less appealing, and the smiles on his face when talking to her were genuine.

However, the events of late contradicted such a claim.

He lied to Gina and his teammates directly, mislead them with half truths because he deemed it _safer _for them and himself, and purposefully withheld important information pertaining to the Rais case weeks before the truth finally slipped. Excuses were made, ones that Gina didn't honestly believe for one second, and time was bided for as long as possible. He tried to solve the case independently again. With the assistance of his old partner in Interpol, he learned so much more than the team had gathered because he didn't have to worry about politics of the FBI. Instead of sharing the information, he kept it a secret for weeks or months at a time until it came back to bite him in the ass.

That wasn't the characteristics of a _changed _man. Those lies told to protect his teammates, to protect family from the dangers linked to the case, showed that some part of his lone-wolf personality was still intact. The nights Gina had spent talking with him, the comforts that seemed to be a lost cause at this point, the unexplainable bond they shared, none of it appeared to _matter _anymore. He was no better than the other men who claimed change, and Gina was willing to admit how distraught she felt by the lies if it brought realization to him.

She knew he had been hiding things from her for the past several weeks. It spanned the course of months, actually. When he began to spend his time in the spare room of her apartment for hours in intervals during the day, when they weren't in the office or Cooper's loft together as a team, talking on his cell phone with people she couldn't understand because he spoke Welsh to some and whispered to others, and redirecting conversation when questioned about it. She knew by his actions that his mind was captivated by something important. Yet, she didn't know how to approach the subject in a manner that would have gotten answers.

Vacation in Florida did seem like the perfect excuse. While she was a bit uncertain about his presence with her family, mostly because her family could be odd at times but always inviting, she felt more confident with him. The same reaction seemed to befall him as well. Her hopes were to convince him to trust her with the information. Trust between the two had never been a problem before, and she guessed it wasn't necessarily the problem now either. Whatever it could be labeled as didn't matter. The only significant issue at that point was convincing him to share the details he had hidden.

After the incident with Lucas Baines at the department store hours ago, all she had to do was find a quiet section of beach and remind him of his promise. Thankfully he always kept his promises, especially to those he cared for.

The private section of Jacksonville Beach was only _private _in the sense that it didn't often attract a large number of tourists at one given time so it was never excessively crowded. There were plenty of vacation homes within a five mile radius. Families that had lived in the area for the past several years tended to flock to the beach on the days where the weather was perfect. Owners and renters of the nearby vacation homes did the same. Despite the number of people, the beach was spacious enough to be comfortable. There were no worries of someone overhearing conversation, or intruding on privacy.

It had been too many years since she stepped foot on the sands of the beach. The sand itself was warm beneath her bare toes, beautiful off-white speckled with people and beach necessities spreading as far as the eye could see along the coast, sporting various sized seashells of different shapes and colors in an even mix. The ocean swelled to create large rolling waves that were perfect for those who surfed, crashing onto the sands with a corpus amount of white that reflected blindingly in the evening sunlight before drawing back into the ocean. Against what Gina recalled from her youth, the water was not as clear as she imagined. It was a sort of green-blue and tan in places, not entirely transparent but stunning all the same.

They had set their beach chairs and umbrella away from the surf by a considerable amount. Lifeguards in their towers, families enjoying the sands and surf with sandcastles crafted by the children, surfers daring the ocean current for excitement, couples and friends enjoying their time together as they chatted under umbrellas in beach chairs, no one paid Mick and Gina too much attention. Gina couldn't find motivation to complain about such, especially when Mick brought his tan tattered bag containing the thick case files he had compiled over the past few months.

He had changed into a pair of long black shorts just above his knees and a short sleeved gray tee shirt, new black sandals kicked off onto the sand. As he opened the case files on the end of the green beach chair and hunched on the edge of the seat beside her, she watched him attentively. His bare feet dug into the sand for a few unspoken moments, seemingly testing the grains and shells in fascination. A few minutes were spent picking shells from the sand, finding a few he liked and pocketing them for later use. Supposedly he hadn't stepped foot on a beach since his days in Wales before the death of his parents. Naturally, the fascination and awe on his features was understandable.

It was a method to bide time, Gina knew, and it was working exceptionally well.

Gina knew they only had an hour to themselves before their presence was requested for a family meeting. Sleeping arrangements had already been dictated as well as a schedule for when they were going to travel south to _Downtown Disney_ together, but there was still quite a bit of work to be done for Ariel's upcoming wedding. Suits had to be tailored, dresses chosen by last minute family, guests to confirm, legal information filed, and a rehearsal was undoubtedly not something Gina could be excited for. Despite the illusion that they were on vacation, they were going to be busy over the next several days just in preparations alone.

She felt as though her patience was wearing thin as the silence between them carried on. With a sigh, she swung her bare legs over the side of her own beach chair and leaned her elbows on her knees.

She had no intentions of swimming at the moment. There was plenty of time for that later. Therefore she dressed in new denim shorts and purple sleeveless tee, hair left to drape over one shoulders carelessly. The sand beneath her toes, after she unbuttoned her own sandals and placed them beneath the seat, was reminiscent of her past experience as a young teenager. She pushed the feeling aside to reach for a file perched precariously on the edge of his seat, fully aware when Mick retracted minutely as she invaded his personal space. He attempted to stop her, but the warning in her glare must have been enough to advice him not to.

His movements were tender from the new bruises caused by his collision with a car earlier that afternoon. The scrapes were less of a bother, although they were still forming unappealing scabs beneath the liquid bandages, and would probably stay that way unless he took a swim in the ocean within the next few hours. While Helen's professional suggestions to help ease the discomfort in his muscles worked tremendously, it didn't fix the problem entirely. Nothing was going to help the bruises fade any faster, and both Mick and Gina understood that. But Gina couldn't help the wince on her face when she witnessed his cautious movements. Somehow trouble found him, even during a seemingly harmless vacation, and Gina silently feared those new bruises were just the start of their troubles.

Once the file was propped in her lap, she began to decipher the barely legible shorthand notes stapled and taped to official documents. First glances were indicative of Interpol and Scotland Yard redacted files. Gina knew Mick still had leverage in Interpol, but not enough to get his hands on highly classified information alone. His old partner must have gotten the information, although obviously unable to get the original files, which suggested he told her the bare basics of why he needed it. Probably not the situation with Rais in its entirety, but just enough to mask his reasons incase she could detect when he was lying. The only viable information on the documents was dates, names, and places. Everything else that may have been useful was covered in jet black ink.

_Almost _everything.

_Marc Rawson 1980-1991. Awstin Baines 1982-1987. Michael (Mick)_ _O'Byrne 1952-1959. Sofia Baines 1989-1991. Alis Lloyd 1983-1992. Lucas Baines 1993-Unknown. Neil and Maura Fergusson 1980-1990. William Fergusson 1991-Unknown._

Those names and years weren't consistent with possible years of birth and death. The names themselves baffled Gina, regardless of how many times she read them. There were no other indications as to who or what the documents were referring to, no hint as to why everything else was redacted so severely. Gina recognized _Marc Rawson _as Mick's father. The man died in 1991, at the age of thirty six. Mick was born in 1983, not 1980. What that meant, Gina hadn't been able to wrap her mind around plausible theories yet. _Alis Lloyd _was a family friend. Mick mentioned her once before months ago, stating over dinner that he was trying to find where she lived so he could contact her. Lastly, _Lucas Baines _was supposedly the man stalking them. He was certainly over the age of thirty, so the date didn't quite mean anything to the idea of birth.

The places listed were just as troubling to understand. _Barmouth, Harlech, Belfast, Dolgellau, Penarth, Cardiff, London, _and _Edinburgh. _Lack of order was not helpful, and Gina recognized the majority as cities or towns overseas. Of course, she had no way of knowing what any of it meant without more of an explanation.

"It's different." Mick whispered, seemingly to himself, as he fumbled a twisted tan shell between his fingers. She jumped at the sound of his voice, having not expected him to break the grueling silence between them. A brief glance at the ocean clarified what he was referring to, and Gina felt a sudden ping of sadness as he continued with a solemn tone to his Welsh accent. "In Penarth, the ocean was less clear, and there were more shells and fossils than this. The sand was good enough to make castles, but my mum always made a point for me to wear sandals so I didn't hurt myself with a shark tooth or something. And it was always a bit colder than this during the spring. Most times, I wasn't even allowed to go swimming until the summer weather hit, and never without a chaperone." He paused to look up at her, a smirk ghosting his face. "Different in a good way, darling. Ya know, I may be able to make the best damned castle you've ever seen. I'll even engrave your name on it."

Gina released a deflating breath as he held her gaze, feeling the tension slide off her shoulders as an affectionate grin forced itself on her features. He was flirting with her again, the same typical routine he did when only around her explicitly, and the normalcy was greatly appreciated. "This is beginning to feel like a very cheesy romantic comedy movie line." She replied, nudging his foot gently with her own. "I'm not going to make-out with you one the beach."

He shrugged, clearly taken back by the response and leaned back to pocket the shell he had been fumbling with. "How do you know that wasn't my intention? And for the record, that's disappointing."

"Because you're biding time so you don't have to explain all of this." She answered sincerely, tapping her fingers against the file in emphasis. His expression changed in a heartbeat; the smile faded into a thin frown and his eyes fell on the files beside him. Gina understood his desire to avoid the subject. But they were a team, _partners_, and she expected him to be open with her just as she was with him. After an uneasy audible swallow from him, she nudged his foot again to recapture his attention. "You promised, and you never break your promises. At least not to me."

Mick appeared to give her words a moment of thought, staring at the file in her lap intensely. Then he pulled his eyes away and shuffled through the files beside him for one in particular. It was quickly recognized as his own personal notes for the entire Rais case. Pieces of scrap paper or napkins littered with his usual shorthanded scrawl and even several pieces of printer paper taped and folded together in a kind of timeline. He drew a heavy packet of notebook paper stapled and clamped together from the mix and handed it to her, silently urging her to read it.

"That's everything I've recorded so far." He stated, flipping it to a specific page and jabbing a finger at the first sentence. "When I found that piece to my dragon, I made a lot of calls to my old partner, Katie. Out of everyone else in Interpol, she's the only one I trust won't sell me out to the directors. I didn't tell her everything. The only thing I did tell her was that I'm working a classified case and the less who know about it, the better."

"She didn't ask questions?" Gina asked, surprised as she looked up from the records. So far, all she read was an abbreviated transcript of their conversation concerning the Penarth Cemetery.

Mick shook his head as he answered. "We used to have a very impressive record together. We were responsible for solving the worst serial murder cases Interpol was involved in. Therefore we were granted a lot of leniency, just like Red Cells, and a lot of my methods to gather information were less…_politically correct_ than what was normally allowed. After a while, she just stopped asking questions and started covering for me."

"You thought that wing to your dragon was taken from your mother's coffin…" Gina paraphrased from his notes.

"I did, but it actually wasn't." He replied before she could finish. "According to records Katie pulled from Penarth Cemetery, the graves have never been touched. Once they were put in the ground and buried, they have never been tampered with in any fashion. Which means the wing was never in the coffin to begin with. That leads to two possibilities."

"Someone removed it before it was buried at the service, or the person that was supposed to put it in the coffin never actually did." Gina deduced almost in unison with him, scaling her eyes down the page as a frown knit her brow together.

"Exactly. There was only a large handful of family at the service who had the opportunity to do such a thing. Alis and Owen, my grandmother Sofia, aunt Gwyneth and her children, aunt Elaine and her kids, and uncle Morris with his family. I've been able to exclude most of everyone based on travel records." He paused to draw a breath, his hand actions portraying the story in time with his words just as they always did when he was excited about something. "Rais wouldn't have someone steal the wing and just allow someone else to place it as bait. Everything he's done is a psychological manipulation. He wanted me to find the wing, find who stole it, find that it was probably someone related to me in some way, and then find the person he sent to break into our flat. That person is _supposed_ to be such a surprise that I take the hint and back off."

Gina contemplated that for a moment. It sounded as though was grasping at straws unintentionally. There was no way of knowing what Rais intended. The man was a psychopath who never did anything predictable. Hence why he was never caught. For Mick to assume so much meant that he was desperate, and Gina was beginning to fear that he came to the assessment because it was something he _wanted_. Basically, he could have seen what he _wanted _to see, and not what was directly in front of him. He had to be careful not to let his desire for revenge overcome his judgment and rationality.

"So you're betting that the same person who stole the wing is also the same person who broke into our apartment. That's risky. How do you know the guy who was supposed to put it in the coffin actually did?" Gina questioned, scanning the written information more carefully as she tried to summarize everything said into one central point. The smaller details were equally crucial, but took away from the main answers he was giving. In order to better understand everything for both her and Mick, she began to question everything.

Mick nodded in agreement, turning his attention to the record in Gina's hands. He flipped through the page hastily, almost excited that he had someone to discuss the new findings with, until he came to another transcript. "Because I talked to him and had Katie confirm it. The man was responsible for preparing the coffins and their bodies for the service. He swears on his mother's grave that he put that cloth in that coffin. Katie confirmed it with his assistant at the time." Another pause had him twisting his fingers together and his eyes on the sand between them as his tone dropped an octave. "It was a closed coffin service because there were children involved and they were too badly burned. So I only know it was in there because Sofia took me to the funeral home with her to say one last goodbye. I saw him put the wing in her coffin before he snapped it shut."

"And how did you rule out the others? What if Sofia removed it then? How did you find that Lucas Baines was behind it?" She knew asking such questions were hard for both of them. Appearances were misleading, and despite her sharp tone, she was more curious than anything else.

Mick hesitated by scooping another small handful of sand to gather the seashells. It was another subconscious measure to avoid answering, and Gina could read the reluctance on his features as clear as his written scribbles. There was something else to the avoidance of his eyes and the slumped shoulders, something he wasn't quite ready to discuss in great lengths yet. Gina vaguely recognized it as disappointment. Not in the same fashion as if he had lost a piece of his pride, but more in the sense that he knew someone he was once close with was dead.

Gina had seen the same expression on her father's face when she was younger, and he had found that one of his old teammates had died in a car accident.

"Process of elimination through travel records, as well as basic historic records. Of course, all of that is based off the theory that Rais used the same person as a method of intimidation." He answered with a sigh, dumping the sand back on the beach and propping his elbows on his knees once more.

"Owen died in a hiking accident six years ago. His wife confirmed it with the morgue when they found his body. Alis moved back to Cardiff shortly after they passed away. Rumor has it that she has been touring the world in search of the next big archeological discovery. Funny thing is she got to do what she always wanted after all. It seems like the only thing that held her back was our family. To be honest, that's a bit hard to swallow. Both the fact that she carried on with her life like none of it ever happened, and Owen's death. I had no idea what had happened until Katie pulled the death certificate."

The pause between them lasted too long. Sounds of the crashing waves and distant undefined chatter of people became more pressing. But Gina sympathized with Mick in those few moments of silence. Under normal circumstances, she knew he despised any act of sympathy so she did her best to hide it from him. However, it was an emotion she couldn't deny.

Mick rarely ever talked about Owen and Alis, and only once by name before. He had told her of the days Alis spent with him along the beach collecting shells and fossils, and how Alis wanted so desperately to be the next world famous archeologist or paleontologist. She taught him everything he knew about the history of the dinosaurs and the ancient cultures that used to reside in Wales at such a young age and it was something he never forgot. Owen supposedly played football with him in the field behind their home when his father was working in Cardiff. He was a sports fanatic, much like Gina's grandfather on her mother's side, and narrated the games he had seen on the field in hopes to teach Mick how to play better. They were just as important as his parents. Meaning the death of Owen and the abandonment from Alis must have struck him hard.

"_Baines _is, or was, my mother's maiden name. " Mick continued with a flash of an anxious smile. "After some digging, I found that my granddad was actually an Irishman who moved to Barmouth and changed his name so he could marry Sofia. He turned traitor from the army he was involved in and gave information to the British government. In exchange, they allowed him to move from his home in Belfast and start a new life in Wales with Sofia. He only spent five years in prison and was released with a new name that couldn't be traced to his old life at the time. Unfortunately he died when my mother was about ten years old. No one ever found what killed him, but the doctors thought it was some kind of disease they didn't have the technology to test for at the time."

He appeared contemplative as he resumed after a brief second. "His actual name was _Michael O'Byrne, _but everyone always called him _Mick. _I honestly think my mother started calling me _Mick _in his honor, because our birthdays were only a week apart. It's strange that I never questioned that until I found the records. I mean, she never talked about him or even mentioned him. And she was definitely Welsh…" He stopped abruptly to glance at her anxiously, looking as though he was embarrassed by his explanations. "Can it still be said that I'm Welsh? If my granddad on my mum's side was Irish and my grandmother on my father's was Scottish…"

Gina nodded in understand, reaching forward to grasp his hand for a brief second to signify that it wasn't a subject to work himself into nervousness over. "Of course you can. And I'm not just saying that to be nice." She interrupted. "You were born in Wales to two Welsh parents. Therefore, you have every right to call yourself Welsh. For instance, my great-grandparents were undeniably French. But the LaSalle family, at least mine, has called themselves American for the last eighty years."

He studied her for a minute second before an appreciative and understanding smile crossed his face. With a quick pat of her hand on his own he nodded his agreement and pulled away to shuffle through the stack of files again.

"Sofia has been in a psychiatric institution since late June of 1991. I lived with her for two months after the funeral, and during that time she was grieving so heavily that it drove her mad. There's no way she would have stolen anything from her dead daughter. She couldn't even look at a picture of her or look Jenna and I in the eyes without bursting into tears." Mick stopped his rustling through the pile as he defended his grandmother's name, his eyes dropping away from Gina once more to hide the emotion climbing to the surface. Gina could only imagine how difficult that must have been considering both were young children. Sofia probably didn't mean to show such an attitude towards them. But grieving had a way of bringing the truth to light.

"Gwyneth and her children moved out of the country after a nasty divorce with her husband, who drank himself into an early grave two years ago. Her children have been cleared as well based on travel records because they've never been outside of England. On my father's side, Morris still lives in Harlech with his family. They haven't been outside of Wales for the past twenty five years. Dad did have two other sisters, twins, but they died at the age of fifteen. Some psychopath kidnapped them a week before Christmas. Police found their bodies in pieces on the coast of Harlech two months later. He was found and executed a year after that. So that leads us to uncle Awstin and his wife Elaine."

A file was pulled from the center of the rest, scanning the contents momentarily before he placed it on the notes already perched on Gina's lap. The file itself was nothing more than a direct photo copy of the original Scotland Yard case records. Crime scene photos were grainy from the low resolution of the camera, handwriting fading in places until it was almost unreadable, and even the insignia at the top of every page was depicted as degrading. All of which implied that the original case file had been kept in a dusty box to rot for more than twenty years. There were clippings from a newspaper attached with staples to one paper. A quick glance at the date and heading acknowledged that it originated from a newspaper in Northern Wales and was printed throughout the summer, fall, and winter of 1987.

"Scotland Yard was called in after Awstin Baines died from a fall out of a window during a family reunion in Barmouth. His son, my cousin Lucas, accused my father of pushing him out of the window. Scotland Yard didn't agree because there was no evidence to support the claim. Awstin had been fighting with my dad about something during the reunion, and I don't remember what about because I was only about five years old at the time, but the inspectors didn't find a viable motive for such a thing. It was ruled as an accident. The house was being remodeled and that section wasn't finished yet. Supposedly he went up there for some reason, got his feet caught in the plastic on the floor near the window, and slipped out of the open hole in the wall."

"So Lucas Baines is your cousin. How does he fit into Rais' operations?" Gina pondered aloud as she read the file, or rather, what wasn't redacted. Thankfully the original only had a few details closed to curious eyes. That was a large improvement from everything else they had gathered in terms of official records.

"After Awstin died, Elaine took it really hard. She started drinking and moved her family away from Barmouth. She refused to talk with family anymore, blamed my father for the death of her husband, turned into a right hag if I do say so myself, and drove her children to hate her. She still lives in Northern Wales, as does her other children. One, Braden, actually joined the army when he turned nineteen. He works as a communications officer stationed in Camp Bastion. Oddly enough, I've never even met him and I lived in that camp for almost five years between cases for Interpol. Well, all except Lucas. In 1993, he was fifteen years old. He ran away from home and was never seen or heard from again. Police had no leads and it seemed like he just vanished. They suspected he had enough of his mother and found his own way out of the situation. Either he found a new life somewhere, or he died and his body was never found."

"If he vanished, how does he work into the organization?"

Mick flipped to the next page in the file for her and withdrew a single photo copy. The fifteen year old boy grinned from ear to ear in front of a freshly painted black bicycle; dark brunette hair cut short just above his ears, deep chocolate colored eyes that were strikingly familiar to Mick, yet a mischievous and unsettling mixture to his features. There was a certain aura about him that Gina grimaced at, maliciousness in his eyes that Gina had never seen before with Mick, and Gina couldn't place an accurate word to describe it aloud. She did admit that he carried some of the features of the Baines family like Mick and Jenna and their mother, but there was a visible lack of morality that sent a shiver down her spine.

"This was taken on his fifteenth birthday, two months before he disappeared. It was the photo used to search for him." Mick clarified as he pulled another photo from his stack of notes beneath the file. The next photo was far less clear. It was taken from a distance with what appeared to be a professional surveillance camera. However, the photo was speckled with what looked to be dust or water. Edges were ripped, stained and indescribable in places, and discerning when it was taken was challenging. It looked to be a backdrop of a busy ancient cobble stoned street, one that Gina couldn't name the basic location of despite the brick and stone buildings. Mick held it in front of her, tapping a finger against a grainy lone figure on the left.

"This was taken by Interpol agents in France five years ago. They were trying to find a link between a ring of art thieves planning to rob the largest museums across France, and a rumor that they were being paid to do so by a mysterious man no one could give a description of. The agents were found in their hotel room a day after this photo was taken. There was no evidence save for three hand carved carbon hunting arrows which were embedded into each man's right eye. They estimated that the shots came from the building across the street. The window was left open while they went over the data they caught that day, and they never had a chance to even draw their weapons. The shooter then entered the hotel room and stole all photos they had taken with the exception of a few."

"So he missed this one. How? And what's so important about it? You sound like you worked that case."

Mick nodded as he continued, "I did for about two months before SAS called me back for another mission. It was one I've never been able to solve. As for how he missed it, it was hidden with another smaller stack of photos that were going to be sent to command. We found them in a sealed bag in a hollowed section of wall in the bedroom. One of the agents kept a written log of everything they did that was in the bag too. He described the man in the photo as a _Welshman far from home, with unknown ties to the investigation, but seems to know the leader well. _The leader of the thieves was a woman once convicted of art theft and forgery and spent ten years in prison for it, with a nasty reputation of killing her accomplices after the job is complete so she doesn't have to pay them. Unfortunately we couldn't prove that she did kill them. She was questioned by another group of agents after I was taken off the case. Katie got me the transcript of the interrogation. Luckily for us, the leader didn't trust anyone and she always ran background checks on the people she hired and worked with. She found that _Lucas Kyne _was actually _Lucas Baines_. How she found out, I don't know._ Lucas Kyne _is an alias of a man who showed up out of nowhere in 2008 and lived in southern Germany until November of last year. The Interpol team in charge of watching him for the past few years lost him. He hasn't been seen since."

Gina took the photo from him and studied it carefully. She gnawed on her bottom lip in thought, posing the next question with hesitance and uncertainty to her voice. "How long have known about all of this?" She couldn't help but feel a bit betrayed. He had gone to such great lengths to find answers and he didn't even bother to tell her until pressed. It seemed as though he had everything solved in terms of who Lucas Baines was, but not in the necessary question of why it connected to Rais. Gathering that much information had to take months, not weeks. That meant he was already putting the pieces together when they came home from Alaska at the end of December. It also implied that he lied to her back in their shared apartment the night before.

That piece of his dragon led to the information. It was the first piece of the trail, meaning he didn't find it a few weeks ago like he said. It also meant that he had been lying to her for months, and she was too blinded by her explicit trust in him to see it.

Mick swallowed convulsively, avoiding eye contact and fumbling with the edge of the photo of Lucas Baines in hand nervously. He dug his toes into the sand deeper and drew his knees closer to himself protectively. "I've only known about Lucas for a week. Katie is still searching for confirmation. She created an aged model of what he would look like now based on the photo taken when he was fifteen. That's how I recognized him…"

"And the rest?" Gina interrupted sharply, flipping through the pages of documents exaggeratedly as she continued in the same brisk and offended tone. "Mick, this is _months _worth of data collected, not weeks. You_ lied _to me last night." His response was nothing more than a pinch of his finger against the bridge of his nose and a sincere apologetic expression. "All of this, there's so many damned holes that I don't even know where to begin. If you're right and the man we encountered earlier is Lucas, then why is he here? How did he even get involved with Rais? At the time of when the wing was stolen, he would have been thirteen years old. How the hell does a thirteen year old from Wales get involved with an international terrorist organization?"

"It's a work in progress, darling." Mick muttered with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry for lying…"

"Which I should have been a part of from the start. _Sorry _really doesn't cut it at this point." She stated as she closed the files in her lap and tossed them on his chair beside him. "You waited to tell me all of this until the very last minute and I can't figure out why the hell you would do something like that. We're partners, _friends_, and you act like you trust _Katie _more than me." She stopped her rant instantly and mentally smacked herself for her tongue. Normally, she always picked on him for his jealousy when other men talked to her. But in that instance, the jealousy rolling off her tongue was enough to warrant the same reaction from him. She braced herself for it; running her hand through her hair and leaning back to fold her legs beside her. Admitting such jealousy wasn't going to happen, even if it was true.

Thankfully the immature behavior never came.

He began to put the files back in his bag hanging off the edge of the headrest, keeping his hands busy while his eyes focused on everything else except her. "I did it because I had to, because I didn't want you to get caught up in this mess too. None of what happened was ever supposed to be brought to the surface again. It's too dangerous and I thought that if I could solve another key portion on my own, you and the rest of our team won't be put in harms way again." That was the honest truth, and Gina read it clearly as he finally looked at her with raw sincerity on the surface. "I did it to protect you. Just like I agreed to come with you on this trip. Not because I had plans to work the case between enjoying the beach, but because I _wanted _to make sure you were safe and happy."

Gina had no way to argue with that. He was being honest in a manner that she had never seen before, in a way that had her mind buzzing with sympathy and appreciation and frustration in a jumbled mix she couldn't organize or distinguish from. It took courage for him to admit the unspoken innuendoes, to be so sincere that was it almost uncharacteristic, and that did portray an attitude of a changed man. But he still lied to her and kept information hidden. She simply couldn't _forgive _him less than a day after the act.

In a way, the prospect of protecting each other was mutual. They kept each other safe because it was more than just a job as partners. However, they had never really taken the time to analyze _why. _It seemed as though Mick had an epiphany sometime over the last few months, hence his blatant desire to stay by her side more frequently, and Gina didn't think she could do the same.

Essentially, she came to realize by his words and actions of late that he thought of her as more than a partner and friend or even family. He adored her unconditionally, felt the indescribably need to always place himself in front of the dangers to protect her, and the feeling was mutual for her. But she didn't know _how _to acknowledge that in any appropriate fashion without destroying their friendship.

Gina pulled her sandals from under the chair and slid them back over her feet, hesitating with the last one as she caught Mick's eyes on her. She pushed herself out of the beach chair without a word and gathered her sunglasses. Once they were perched on the bridge of her nose and over her eyes, she held a hand to Mick's shoulder to stop him from following her. "I'm just going for a walk to process everything. Preferably alone."

Mick tried to argue, attempted to stand despite the little room she gave him to do so, and finally settled for a dejected posture that pulled at Gina's heart.

In her defense, it was an extravagant amount of data to process. The fact that he had been lying to her for months, keeping information from her in the name of _protection_, was just a small portion of her stress. It didn't feel like so initially, but as the realization sank in with time, the facts Mick had explained and his sudden willingness to be uncharacteristically sincere as far as emotions were more troubling.

If he was correct, and he was rarely ever wrong, than Lucas Baines was a cousin with orders to watch both of them. The _why _and _how _was always the hardest to determine.

* * *

Mick was unpredictable at his best, a contradiction to normalcy on a regular basis, and Gina found that trait fascinating. It was one of the many things she admired about his personality. Expectations simply didn't occur to him. Whether that was intentional or not, she had no way of knowing. His tendency to be unique and different from the world at large always struck her as odd and interesting. It took quite a while to become familiar and understandable to her throughout their relationship as partners. However, after three years, she believed she could predict his movements within a reasonable degree.

Naturally, Mick _had_ to challenge her estimates.

Gina had only traveled two miles along the shore in one hour. There was roughly ten miles of beach along the coast and she had no intentions of traveling the entire distance. An hour was all it took to wrap her mind around the fine details of the previous conversation with Mick.

She had a plan devised by the time she found her way back to their beach chairs and umbrella. Over the past sixty minutes, she came to realize that she may have overreacted. Understandably, the fact that he had kept information and came to his old partner in Interpol for assistance rather than her had upset her. In hindsight, the conversation didn't warrant her to walk away from him in such a manner as she had done. She came to the conclusion, as she watched a content couple on beach chairs a mile down the shore chatting happily with each other, that she ran because it was necessary at that moment. It was a response to the fact that he had almost admitted something both were going to regret, and she didn't have the courage to verbally agree.

Relationships had never been her forte.

Gina was going to apologize for her reaction and hope that he didn't hold it over her head. It sounded simple, but she couldn't fight the nervousness twisting in her stomach as she played the scenario through her mind repeatedly. Mick wasn't the type to hold a grudge, at least not on those he cared for, so she was fairly certain he would accept the apology.

By the time she reached the area they had once occupied, the sun was setting beyond the horizon along the ocean. Dinner was probably already being prepared at the beach home and she knew she was going to get an earful for being later than promised when she returned. The waves were closing inland as the tide began to rise. People were still enjoying the surf, but there were far less than an hour before. The temperature was beginning to drop in slow intervals and the breeze nipped at her bare legs and arms sharply.

She stopped in front of the chairs with a tight frown and folded her arms over her chest, looking down each end of the beach in search of Mick. He wasn't on the chair like she expected, and she knew he didn't follow her during the walk. For a long minute, she felt dread growing as she didn't see him. It was possible that he already returned to the beach home. He would have taken the chairs and the umbrella with him though. It was also possible that he found some kind of trouble again, and that was what really scared her.

His bag containing the case files was no longer propped against the back of the chair, and his sandals were removed from beneath. There were footsteps, roughly size ten which was consistent with his typical shoe size, leading from his chair towards the pier in the distance. She didn't know if he had his cell phone with him, seeing as she had kept hers in her bedroom back at the house for fear that it would somehow meet the ocean, and she was tempted to retrieve it just to call him. On the chair, a folded piece of scrap paper torn from the files was left to be weighted by two thumb-sized beautiful tan and white shells, and Gina took some comfort in the fact that Mick had more than likely left it for her. They were still damp enough to wet the paper slightly, therefore Gina assumed Mick had gotten them from closer to the shore less than thirty minutes ago.

She removed the shells and observed them in her hands attentively, sinking onto one end of the chair as she sighed in relief. The rough lines against her fingers were mesmerizing and the color and shape alone was stunningly picture perfect for two shells washed ashore. Her unoccupied hand snatched the note as she clutched them and peeled the paper open with her fingers. The handwriting was unmistakable, and the words were honest even scribbled hastily and crooked on the page. It was such a short note, but it portrayed so much in so few words.

'_Meet me beneath the pier at nine. I've got a surprise planned that I hope will make up for my mistake. Please send my deepest apologies to your parents, seeing as I won't be attending dinner. Don't worry about me. If something happens, I'll ring your phone. Hope to see you beneath the pier in a few hours.'_

Of course, every time Mick said _don't worry, _Gina couldn't help the exact opposite.

* * *

Note- I'm back people! Hello! It's been a while since I've updated anything, hasn't it. I apologize for that.  
I wanted to try something a little different. Lately I have been working on some other one-shots and stories that are not written in first person perspective. So this just kind of wrote itself in that same view. Rather than changing it to first person like I was originally going to do, it seemed like a better idea to leave it as is. It's still focused on Gina so it didn't necessarily break the pattern of the story too much. Hopefully you'll like it.  
First, I wanted Gina to be brought into the loop as to who Lucas Baines was. It became a bit silly that I'm already more than ten chapters in and she hadn't been read into the situation yet. Now that everyone is on the same page, the story will progress a bit faster. Second, there are a few crucial points that I want to make concerning the details of the case. Mick's grandfather from Ireland that no one ever talked about is important. It explains why his mother chose a name like Mick rather than Mike for a shortened version of his birth given name. Actually, everything I write pertaining to the case has meaning in some fashion. Maybe not immediately, but as the storyline progresses. Also, the incident in France Mick mentioned shows what Lucas may have been up to five years ago. That's important too. Lastly, Gina's reaction was somewhat warranted given how close her and Mick have become. The next segment with them picks up where the end of this leaves us. It's fairly obvious what Mick has planned for Gina, and no, I don't plan to make the scene into some cheesy romance thing. There is a little, but it's in moderation so it doesn't get too thick.  
So I think that covers it for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, subscribed, and have been supportive of my work so far. It really does mean a lot.


	13. How Dangerous Is Second Best

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 13 How Dangerous Is Second Best

_Sylvia, Anna, Irina , Klara, Liza, Marya, Sofia, Olga, Aleksandra, Vera, Renata, Bella, Maria, Larisa, Lidiya, Natalya, Roza, Anya, and Nina. _

The aliases were thought to be flawless. Each name developed into a separate person, its own creation based on the assignment at hand, and the lives they carried were as unique as a fingerprint. They were memorable, included birth and death certificates to verify when the assignment was complete, with no room for error or questions. It took an artist to live such brilliant lies, someone who could distance themselves from the moralities to finish the job and disappear without a trace as soon as it was over.

Someone like Nina Surkov. Or rather, _Katia Brown._

Her latest alias wasn't crafted for her by her surrogate father. It wasn't an assignment to assassinate a critical challenge to their way of life, or even a simplistic recon task over the course of months. Aliases were never in short supply whilst working for Rais. She had been so many different people over the years, and it would have been simple to mistake one for the other. But the lies were aged seamlessly in most incidences. In actuality, _Katia _was the only alias she had left. It was a well used lie under a new name, one that she was sure would raise suspicions, and therefore impossibly dangerous.

She had to make due with what little she had.

The majority of her lives didn't have a spouse. A spouse, or any other potential _family _tied to the alias, was often an unnecessary risk. It had advantages when needed and Surkov wasn't afraid to manipulate them for her own benefit. But they were _people, _a variable that tainted her perspective of the mission and challenged her sense of morality, and she didn't communicate well with people. Hence why she always preferred to work alone whenever possible.

Zacchary Turner had been a contradiction she couldn't explain.

Lucas Kyne, or _Grant Brown_, was an anomaly in the same baffling manner.

_Katia Brown _traveled to the United States under the preconceived notion of a newly wedded wife to _Grant Brown _in mid February_. _Their passports and documentations to enter the US were perfect thanks to an old _friend _in Ireland who owed Lucas Kyne a favor. _Anya Galvik _and _Lucas Kyne _were deemed dead to the world with a few well crafted death certificates and forged police reports. As far anyone else was concerned, they had never met and were killed in two separate ends of the European continent on two different days.

Once in the States via a private airport in rural New York, Lucas used his new identity to gather money and transportation from a shady gang outlet on the edge of New York City, only after he had cut off the leader's hand and threatened to do worse to any who dared to question them. He used intimidation and fear for their benefit, which was consistent of his alias and worked well in their favor.

Two days later, they entered Washington DC in their _acquired _black Sedan. They had been living out of the car for the past several days and a chance to stretch their legs was welcomed. Surkov was still recovering from the wound in her right shoulder, thankful that it hadn't gotten infected, and she found it difficult to rest in the vehicle when she couldn't trust the man pretending to be her husband.

Surkov couldn't _trust _him. She couldn't deny his usefulness and the uncanny abilities they shared to work together flawlessly. Nor could she evade the thought that he was ruggedly charming and protective towards her. He had saved her life months before when he didn't deliver her to death as ordered. And he had established a new life in the United States with her, although it was a just another cover to protect themselves, that no one had any reason to question. However, she still couldn't _trust _him because he had his own unexplained and troublesome agenda.

She didn't really have a choice in the matter.

They found a three story apartment building scheduled for demolition in DC a week later. It wasn't occupied by anyone, seeing as it was almost a century old and falling to pieces with age, and therefore provided the perfect cover. Lucas paid the man in charge of the demolition project to forge the documents and postpone the destruction as long as he could. He also bribed the man to keep the workers out of the building, as well as veer any potential threats away with whatever plausible excuse. They needed complete closure and solitude from others, both to maintain their covers and protect themselves from whoever Rais may have sent to find them, and bribery seemed like the best way to do so.

The top two floors of the building were unstable, meaning they had to make due with the rooms on the first floor. Graffiti was painted against walls and solid structures, large vibrant colors and indecipherable words and symbols. Much of the flooring itself, such as the carpet in a few rooms and the wood, appeared charred in tandem with the walls which suggested a fire had been the culprit for its ruined state. Furniture was scorched to a crisp in several rooms, stinking of must and burned human decay and dust from the fallen insulation once filling the patchy walls and ceiling. Windows were shattered with glass littering the floor, large holes that left a draft running through the building on cold and rainy nights. Entrances were boarded with thick plywood, mimicking doors that were far from safe.

It was unhealthy, Surkov knew, but it became home soon enough.

The weeks passed without the normalcy of troubles. Lucas and Surkov remained quiet in the world around them, hidden in their new home until the time to execute their plan presented itself. Surkov spent her time in one section of the building they had deemed home. It needed to be secure and clean enough to live safely. With Lucas only staying for a few hours at a time during the days before he left on his own untold adventures, she had plenty of time to herself.

She sealed the windows with plywood with Lucas's assistance, secured the only entrances and exits, and used the gasoline generator Lucas had salvaged from the local scrap yard to set a trap and alarm system on every possible entrance. Anyone who stepped into the building without authorization from Surkov received a rather painful electrocution via the sheet metal spread within a five foot surface. The alarm system was a series of bells and tripwires. A bedroom was set but Surkov could only find one suitable queen size mattress. Blankets and pillows were particularly rough and flat. The mattress itself was in no better condition, and Surkov had to admit that she felt uncomfortable sharing it with Lucas.

Oddly enough, he rarely ever slept for more than two hours a night.

It was part of the alias; Surkov had told herself throughout the days of solitude and forced patience. Waiting for the correct moment to strike had never been a problem before. But as the days blended together in a mundane routine, as the situation bore down on her with every day she was left immobile by the healing wound in her shoulder, she began to hate the alias.

She ran away from Rais and the organization to start a new life. Now, with nowhere else to go and no one she could rely on but a distrustful Welshman she didn't even know the proper name of, she missed her old life and all of its corrupt glamor.

* * *

"We've been too safe for too long." Lucas announced over dinner one late March night.

It was the twenty eighth of March, a chilly and overcast Wednesday night, when Lucas ended their shared silence. The day had flown by at an alarming rate as Surkov sorted the pile of surveillance photos Lucas had taken of Cooper's team. She spent hours studying them, memorizing routes from the map Lucas had purchased from a gas station months before and marking the best routes to and from each building they may have needed to enter in the future. Dinner hadn't been appetizing, seeing as Lucas could only buy items that didn't require a working stove or microwave, and Surkov admittedly didn't find fast-food or take-out very appealing. It was food regardless of her opinion and she didn't have the resources to be picky.

She looked up at the older man, past the forkful of Chinese noodles perched inches from her lips, and offered a curious raise of her eyebrow. The sling had been removed from her arm a day before, although the wound was still tender, and the range of motion that had returned was comforting. A matted blanket was wrapped over her shoulders to fend off the chill, drooping downwards until it covered the base of the kitchen stool she sat in before the stained kitchen island counter top. She wore a pair of jeans that were considered too loose with the amount of weight she had lost over the months and a thick black sweater that she slept in during the worst of the cold nights. Her boots were sown haphazardly against her worn sock covered foot, swinging mindlessly until the toes barely brushed the wood of the counter. Necessity had warranted a change of hair color before they left Ireland months ago. Instead of the long brunette she had grown fond of, she mixed jet black to give it a more simplistic and less questionable look.

"Jonah has not found us yet. It has been several months since we left. If they knew where we are, surely they would come for us." She tried to rationalize, her Russian accent thick and low in the cadence between them.

Lucas clearly wasn't convinced. In the gloom of the lit candles scattered amongst photos and dinner boxes on the counter, he frowned at her in disbelief. The glow in the room was faint yet evident enough to highlight his unshaven features. Scars and hard lines of stress and age were inadvertently brought to the surface, trimmed dark brunette hair appeared lighter with the hue, and the harsh expression in deep chocolate colored eyes became horribly intimidating after a few seconds. He shifted on his own stool opposite her and gnawed on the fortune cookie in hand to bide time. Well worn boots scraped against wood with the movement, dark gray sleeves of his jacket perched against the table with his elbows. After a few tense seconds he set the remainder of the cookie on the napkin he had been using as a plate and wiped his jeans against the thigh of his jeans carelessly.

"We can't take chances." He began with a critical tone to his Welsh accent. Admittedly, he did have an impressive American accent when he needed to talk with someone. But Surkov had become accustomed to his typical tongue over the past several months.

"We are not moving." Surkov interjected stubbornly.

Lucas blinked at her for a long moment before he replied smoothly, "I don't recall suggesting such a thing. It would be best, however, if we make our move soon. Who knows how long we've got before Jonah and Rais realize they've been duped."

That had been a worry for the past several months. Jonah, Rais' oldest son and heir to his throne once the elder man passed away, was a relentless bastard like his father. He was persistent to a fault, cold and calculated in the sense that he often found new ways to cause others pain, and did run a large chunk of the organization in league with his father. Surkov remembered her childhood with the man as cruel and insensible years of torture until she could fend for herself properly. At the time she was adopted by Rais, Jonah had just turned twenty. She recalled the hours after training, when she was exhausted and wished nothing more than to return to her family, and Jonah had made a point to anger her whenever he possibly could just to prove that he was still Rais' _favorite_. When she grew old enough to carry missions alone, Jonah tried to sabotage them so she would either be caught by authorities or injured severely by the mark.

Almost half of the scars she carried originated from that bastard.

"You still have not told me what the _next move _is in detail." Surkov stated briskly before dropping her fork in the take-out box exaggeratedly. "We have photos depicting their every move for the past two months, routes to and from every building they have visited recently specified, and enough firepower to kill all of them within a day. Yet, we have been _waiting _for the perfect moment."

"I told you, we can't kill them." He interrupted sternly, settling for a heavy sigh when she appeared relentless to stop her query. "The plan is to get them separated. At the very least, we need Rawson away from the rest of his teammates. That's the only way we can convince him to help us. Getting him away from his teammates has been a problem though. Especially with LaSalle practically hanging off his arm all the time."

"How could Rawson help us?" Surkov questioned. "I thought we already established that he can do no more than Cooper. He can not lead the FBI or Interpol or CIA away from us. And he can not grant us immunity for our crimes or protect us from Rais."

They had been expecting a team of Interpol or CIA or FBI agents to sweep into the building any day now. Thankfully they hadn't seen any mysterious van camped around the block within a ten mile perimeter. However, Lucas did report that a small group of five CIA operatives were practically stalking Cooper's team. It was only a matter of time before they found where Lucas and Surkov were hiding, and neither was particularly keen on that outcome.

Lucas shook his head as he crushed the fortune cookie with the edge of his hand, shattering it into bite size pieces against the napkin. There was a moment of hesitation in his voice, just long enough to be noticeable but not enough for Surkov to question. "No, he can't. But think about everything Rais has done over the years you've been with him." He lowered his tone significantly, leaning forward with his forearms on the table to capture her eyes with his own. "Everything he's done to you, taking you away from your family, training you to be something you clearly were never meant to be, sending you on an impossible mission that killed your husband and got Sava captured by the CIA, that's inexcusable. He should pay for all of that. For the people he's killed and the lives he's ruined for his own agenda."

"And you believe Rawson and Cooper can help us with that?" Surkov retorted uneasily.

She had mixed emotions about such a plan. While she did come to the realization that Rais was to blame for the loss of her husband and Sava months ago, as well as her family's murder in Novosibirsk when she was just a child, she was reluctant to deliberately face Rais. She had seen what the man was capable of over the years. Running away as she had done and disobeying his direct orders was one of the hardest decisions she had ever made. It was for her safety though. Never before had she actually considered trying to ruin the organization called home for almost seventeen years.

The Welshman nodded curtly, tossing a piece of fortune cookie in his mouth as he continued. "That's what I'm hoping. The only people who have ever come close to ending Rais have turned up dead within a year of their investigations. CIA operatives, covert Interpol, MI6 and MI5, even the FBI; none of them have come as close to finding a real identity to Rais and essentially an end to this life as Sam Cooper. Even Marc Rawson only came so far over the course of nine years before he was executed with his wife. If we can convince Cooper and Rawson that we're all on the same team, than we can pair our efforts together and finally end this."

She studied him for a long few moments in silence to consider her next response. Lucas had a very valid point. The only people who had ever come close to answers with Rais and the organization were executed. Nameless operatives and spies were either killed the moment their cover was blown, or were traced back to those Rais feared may have been told. Such as Marc Rawson.

Lucas had been careful to reveal what set him on his current path of redemption and revenge. He mentioned his father on one account when pressed for a reason, and how he watched his uncle Marc push him out of a window when he was young and no one believed him because Marc had contacts to seal the records in Scotland Yard and Interpol. It wasn't until much later in life, when he saw a photo of Marc's son who carried a bizarre likeness to the older Rawson as he grew older, that he began to get curious. That curiosity had led him to the partial piece of facts that he dared to share with Surkov.

Marc Rawson wasn't a private inspector as records claimed. That was just an alias given by MI6 to protect him, his wife, and his children, as well as a home in Penarth Wales while he worked to end Rais' organization out of Cardiff. Lucas found the file, which was no small fleet considering he was almost caught with it by Jonah, and found that his father wasn't killed by Marc as he was led to believe. His father had been creating false documents for Rais' operatives throughout Wales for two years before Marc found out about it. In return for his services Rais remained distant from his family. Marc tried to save him, offered a deal with MI6 to get him into protective custody where Rais couldn't hurt him, but his father wouldn't listen to reason. As a result, the two fought and one solid defensive kick from Marc sent the other man out of the hole in the house where the window had yet to be installed.

Essentially, Rais was to blame for the death of his father. Because of that new information, Lucas had no reason to remain loyal to him.

Of course, Surkov knew there was much more to the story.

"What happens if Rawson does not know about his father? Do you honestly believe he will understand or believe you when you tell him that his father was a spy?" Surkov questioned timidly, turning her attention to a candle.

Lucas offered a small reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes, as if to convince himself, and answered sincerely, "That's the goal, darling. We tell Rawson what we know about his father and that will drive him to find more answers. Cooper will naturally follow to keep him in line and make sure he doesn't get himself killed. Between the two of them and us, we should be able to win."

Surkov had enough experience to know that simplistic plans rarely ever lived up to their reputations.

* * *

They awoke with a start to the sound of approaching boots crunching ceiling debris littering the flooring of the halls.

It was just after four o'clock in the early hours of the following Friday morning. The moon was still bright through the slight curved edge of plywood against the only window in their shared room. A Distant breeze barely rustled the starving and neglected bushes outside. It was a peaceful night in comparison to the past. Passing vehicles and barking dogs were unavoidable and could easily be tuned out. The flicker of a candle set on a small table near the window painted calm and mesmerizing shadows against the dingy walls. Sleep came better for Surkov than she had imagined possible, and in her stupor she was actually enjoying the arm stretched under her head as Lucas tried to find the same level of rest.

That is, until the click of several weapons being unlocked echoed through the thin walls and the rhythmic patter of boots announced unwanted company.

Lucas was the first to react. He slid out of bed in one swift movement, allowing the blanket to fall where his sweatpants covered legs had been seconds before, and retrieved a small black padlocked case from beneath the bed. The keys never left the chain around his neck, and it only took a second for him to unlock the case with an audible snap and flip the lip open onto the blanket.

Surkov pushed herself up, wincing at the pull of muscles in her shoulder from the healing wound, and slid out of bed silently. Her sock covered feet found purchase on the tops of her boots, sliding into them seamlessly. The night attire of the sweater she had been wearing for the day and a pair of dark sweatpants did little to fend away the chill in the air. She suppressed a shiver and focused on the issue at hand.

There was no need for words between the two. Missions with Rais required knowledge of covert operational techniques and multiple forms of self defense, and sometimes an instinctual ability to work well with a teammate. In most cases, their marks were executed by signature. However, sometimes they had to improvise with what they had available. It had been months since Surkov and Lucas abandoned Rais, yet the skills they acquired from him were the only thing keeping them alive.

Lucas had been very protective over his belongings. Surkov wasn't entirely sure what he kept in the locked case. He obviously had no intentions of telling her either. She wasn't given time to peek because the boots were approaching at an alarming rate. Rather than continue her curiosities, she gathered her own case from beneath the bed and unlocked it with a simple twist of her fingers against the combination lock. Both were able to smuggle several weapons into the country, including Surkov's prized rifle and several smaller handguns. She withdrew a black weapon and attached one of the silencers effortlessly, loading a new clip and removing the lock in the length of a breath before turning her attention to Lucas.

He specialized in arrows and poisons, Surkov knew from her first unpleasant experience. Oddly enough, he didn't remove a bow from the case. Instead, he drew a long black handled dagger from a clasped leather sheath. The blade appeared dull in the candlelight, reflecting with a glimmer as he flipped it in his hand and grasped the worn leather handle tightly. Surkov stared at it for a brief moment in curiosity, wondering where he found such an antique item and why he didn't just use a gun with a silencer as she was. He caught her eyes with his own and shook his head stubbornly, then jabbed a finger to the edge of the door frame whilst he approached the opposite.

Faint beams of light bounced off the surfaces just outside the room, peeking inside every few seconds. Flashlights attached to the weapons of those sent to kill them, Surkov had no doubts. They were silent towards each other but Surkov assumed they were using hand signals just as they were trained. The footsteps diverted into a separate room beside the confines Surkov and Lucas hid in. Two others were still on the hunt straight towards them, but the three remaining were undoubtedly going to take them by surprise by blowing a chunk of wall in the next room to make an entrance.

Surkov mouthed a muted curse to herself as she clutched her weapon close to her chest, straining her ears hard enough to hear the pulsing of her own blood. The silence was suffocating with tension. Every boot against cobbled flooring, ever anxious breath taken, every adrenaline fueled thump of her heart against her chest, had Surkov on the edge of her toes. She glanced at Lucas, holding his gaze for a long moment, and waited for him to announce when to move. He kept his jaw stiff as he nodded briskly and raised his dagger into a better fighting stance.

They moved in tandem with precision, feet gliding across the floor with every breath, remaining on their toes as if they had been working as partners for years rather than months.

A clear visual of the men was out of the question. It was too dark, despite the flashlights, to define features. All wore relatively the same attire though. Their bulletproof vests were extended to full armor. Surkov had only seen such a thing used by SWAT teams, but the armor was drastically thinner and clearly meant to be stealthier. It was strapped tight against the outer attire of black clothing that masked every ounce of skin. Bullets aimed at their faces or heads wouldn't have worked with the Kevlar masks. The night vision goggles over their eyes gave them sight through the darkness.

Surkov forced herself to remain calm, fluently drawing a breath as she aimed her weapon at the first man's forehead less than two feet in front of her and exhaling as she pulled the trigger. The force of the gunshot sent the man reeling backwards. His head snapped back with a disgusted thud as the bullet embedded into the Kevlar forehead. He sank to the floor in a boneless heap a moment later, which alerted his teammates to their presence instantly.

The next sixty seconds were a blur of instinctual self defense.

Lucas used his knife to execute the next man aiming for Surkov. His knife slid into the side of the man's neck for brief second before it was retracted. While the man instinctively reached for the wound with an audible gasp, Lucas slammed his fist into the man's head and knocked him to the floor. Three others rushed out of the next room with weapons raised and fingers brushing the triggers.

Surkov knew her weapon was woefully ineffective. The body armor protected them, but the force of a gunshot at such a close range still dazed them. It provided enough distraction for Lucas to weave between them. As Surkov dazed them with a single gunshot to the forehead of their masks, Lucas impaled his knife into the small unprotected area of cloth on the left side of their necks where the seams met. The hole in their armor was disguised easily with the darkness, but Lucas found the flaw and attacked without reserve. Once the men were gasping for air and crumbling to the floor, he spun on his heels to face Surkov.

She had just enough time to sidestep before the man she shot seconds ago behind her rose his weapon shakily and pressed the trigger. Unfortunately she was too close, and the bullet only had a few feet of distance before it sliced into her lower left side just above the rim of her pants. Adrenaline masked the immediate pain, but she could feel the bullet cut through her front and back. She felt it exit and heard the distinct crack as it embedded into the nearest chunk of wall, felt the indescribable pierce of skin like a needle prick, yet she didn't register that she had actually been injured.

Lucas flipped his blade in hand once to reposition his grip and drew his arm upwards in a single fluent motion. He put as much force into the throw as he possibly could, stumbling forward on one foot to regain his balance, and fixed Surkov with a hard glare. The man behind her slumped back to the floor as the knife sliced through the Kevlar of his vest and into the center of his chest.

Surkov had a moment of clarity before the pain of her injury overwhelmed her. In that moment, when her free hand found the steady ooze of blood through the ragged hole in her sweater and Lucas steadied her as her legs wobbled precariously, she came to the realization of just how dire their predicament was.

It was troublesome and dangerous over the months. Working for a man like Rais could never be considered _safe_. But the fact that Rais and Jonah had sent a team to kill her and Lucas made the situation _dire, _and she didn't know which of the two hurt worse. The bullet wound or the fact that a man she once idolized as a father was actually trying to kill her.

* * *

Surkov had been running for twenty years.

During her childhood, before the death of her family and her sworn allegiance to Rais, she was quite known for her time running and the mischief that followed. When she grew older and began to work missions for Rais, running kept her alive. Running became a second nature that, given the circumstances, worked to her advantage. Assassination assignments, covert missions, reconnaissance positions; all of which required some form of running. They taught her _how _to run without detection, and how to survive in the process.

The mistake in her most recent escapade involved the very thing she held dear. She had been running for the majority of her life, but the past few months had been a mistake. Running from Rais was a _mistake_, and the cost of such a betrayal was death. In all honesty, she was only postponing the inevitable. She knew he would catch her and Lucas one day, and both would have no choice but to fight or die for their betrayal.

Running _with _Lucas had been a mistake as well. One that she didn't come to realize until the morning of his sudden disappearance.

The majority of Friday and Saturday were a blur of unrecognizable activity. Surkov didn't recall entire conversations with Lucas. Nor did she remember large portions of the days. Blood loss had become a problem late Friday night and into the early morning hours of Saturday, and she used that fact as an explanation for her lapses in memory. She did, however, distinctly recall the minutes Lucas spent stitching her wound.

"I've done my fair share of bleedin' over the years, so just relax and trust me, darlin'. You'll be fine once I get the bleedin' to stop." He stated confidently as he used his teeth to open a package of sterile gauze some hours after the attack. Where he managed to get the necessary materials to properly stitch her wound, she could only assume it was during the hour she had lost consciousness due to the blood loss. He sifted through a large red box perched on the floor beside him, on his knees with one elbow still propped on their shared bed.

His words were meant to be comforting, Surkov knew. But her instincts were screaming at her as she witnessed him remove a long curved needle from the box and sterilize it was rubbing alcohol. He had protected her, saved her life, and that should have carried some weight in the idealism of trust. Instead, she ground her teeth against her leather belt as he worked and resisted the urge to defend herself.

Instinct was screaming that something was wrong. The men sent to their makeshift home were highly trained, but not nearly in the same skill set as Surkov and Lucas. Both were Rais' best assassins in their own way, and Rais and Jonah should have known this wasn't going to work in their favor. The men would be killed immediately, and the chances of success for Rais were absurd.

So why did Rais and Jonah send an average team to kill two high-profile assassins?

Somehow Surkov knew it was linked to Lucas. She just didn't understand _how. _

Saturday was shrouded in a muddled haze. Lucas had disappeared during the day and returning just before sundown, dinner in hand and his bag of notes and camera surveillance equipment in the other. He deflected as to where he had been for the day, and Surkov never would have believed his usual excuse of following standard reconnaissance procedures to ensure their covers were safe as they had done over the past several months, had it not been for the fever deluding rational thought.

In less than twenty four hours an infection had set into the wound. It wasn't normal, even with their current living conditions, and Surkov knew there was something terribly wrong other than the obvious. The wound had been growing an angry red beneath the black stitches since Lucas stitched it. Pain was unavoidable when she refused anything that may have impaired her abilities to fight, and after so many hours it became nothing more than a dull, irritating nuisance whenever the wound was jostled whilst changing the bandages or movement. Fever, nausea, drowsiness, sweating, and a massive headache, were all typical symptoms of a severe bacterial infection. However, it was too soon for such a thing to overwhelm her.

Her symptoms were also consistent with some type of poison, but Lucas had no _reason _to poison her…

By the time Sunday morning came, Surkov was desperate for an answer. She had every intention to question Lucas, even at gun point if necessary, just to ensure that he didn't cause her injury to worsen as she feared. It was not her most brilliant plan of action, understandably, but she lost any sense of patience and leniency over the night.

The clock on her burner phone read just after seven in the morning when she awoke from her restless night slumber. She hadn't expected Lucas to be sleeping beside her, seeing as he always disappeared for the day shortly after six, and she wasn't surprised to find herself alone in their shared bed. Morning sunlight peered past the wooden barricades of the windows, the candles unlit on the nightstand and the bottles of water she had been ordered to drink left sealed in an open cardboard box beside the bed. The decayed stench of the newfound home was different with the decomposing bodies of the men sent to kill them wrapped in construction plastic and stored in a room on the second floor until they could be disposed of properly. Needless to say, it did nothing for the nausea rolling in her stomach.

She forced herself to sit on the edge of the bed, her back hunched and her patched sock covered feet planted firmly on the small section of cleared flooring. Sweat clung one of Lucas's large gray tee shirts to her skin, hanging loosely over her thin trembling body in unison with the dark pair of long shorts just above her knees that barely clung to her hips. Her hair plastered messily against her head and her face appeared just as flushed and tender as it felt. The motion of sitting upward twisted the world around her, and she squeezed her eyes shut until the sensation of falling subsided.

Her cell phone had been stored beneath her pillow with her gun as a precaution. She groped for it once more, fumbling with the device until shaking fingers could flip the lip open again, and waited impatiently for her eyes to focus on the notifications. Or rather, lack of. Lucas should have contacted her by that time, just as he always did, and she began to worry with the break in habit.

Surkov shut the phone and tossed it on the bed behind her with a huff. She studied the room attentively, eyes settling on the sudden disappearance of two once familiar large duffle bags beside her own in one corner. They belonged to Lucas, were kept safe and prized by him, yet they were gone. The space they once occupied held nothing but the indent in the dusty flooring. Intuition began to gnaw at her conscious, and it took some effort to slide to the floor and peer beneath the bed frame.

His weapons case was missing as well. Hers was still safely in place, but his was _gone. _

Lucas was very capable of protecting himself, so the thought of another ambush while she was lost in fevered dreams was out of the question immediately. He wouldn't have taken all of his belongings for another simple reconnaissance day. Nor would he leave without a valid excuse, especially when Surkov exceedingly ill.

Not without some sort of note at the very least.

The thought drew her to her feet, using the bed to stabilize herself, and she winced as she leaned over the bed to his pillow. Her hand groped freely for a folded piece of paper beneath the flat pillow, becoming despaired when she instantly didn't find it. But the feeling quickly dissipated when her hand brushed a small square of folded paper. She drew it out from its confines immediately and sat on the bed again, straightening the folds eagerly.

'_Jonah is in the city. Sighted him spying on Rawson and LaSalle. They're leaving the state for a few days. I'm following them to continue the plan. Contact Cooper and keep him busy with hunting Jonah. Keep yourself safe. Dispose of this note appropriately. - Lucas'_

Surkov knew that all of her running would come to an end sooner or later. Even when it was for a seemingly moral cause, the end was always just around the corner. With Jonah in the city personally and hunting her, running wasn't going to save her.

The only option left, she realized as she used the lighter beside the candles on the nightstand to set the note ablaze, was to run _to _Sam Cooper. If she could survive that long, anyway.

* * *

Note- People! Hello people! I'm back! It's been too long since I've posted anything. Things have just been busy. I've had this idea for a one-shot for Once Upon A Time (involving Killian Jones/Hook because I absolutely adore the new presentation of the character) that's been nagging at me, and I think I'll have to write it just keep the plot bunnies from eating me alive. If it turns out well, I'll post it under the appropriate board.  
Anyway, I needed this chapter to show Surkov and Lucas. I felt as though they had been neglected and they are critical to the story. Therefore, this chapter was a bit difficult to write because there was a lot to cover over the course of their months together. (I've got to say that the names of Surkov's previous aliases were taken from several naming websites. If they're wrong or severely uncommon for a Russian woman, than I apologize. I can only go by what I read.) At the same time, I wanted to be careful about how much I revealed. For instance: their plan isn't entirely agreed upon by both, and Surkov has her doubts as whether she can really trust Lucas or not. He knows much more than he's willing to tell her. Particularly about what he read concerning his father and Marc Rawson. There's more to that story that he didn't tell Surkov, and I'll reveal that as the story progresses. Marc Rawson was MI6, which has a lot more meaning than mentioned so far, and according to Lucas, he was hunting Rais. That's what got him and his wife killed. But Mick either doesn't know that yet or doesn't want to accept it. You'll see which when Lucas and Mick actually meet. Just for the record, I do not plan to be clique and bring one or both of the parents back from the dead. Dead _is _dead, unless I have some strange desire to make this into a science fiction or fantasy, which isn't plausible.  
I digress again…  
The fact that Jonah is hunting Lucas and Surkov all beneath the radar of those who could interfere in DC, such as the FBI and CIA, really presses the need for Surkov to find help. Without Lucas and injured, she has no other choice but to go to Cooper. That steps the story up a bit because Jonah will have to get through Cooper and the rest of the team to get to Surkov.  
So, I think that covers it for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! Your patience and encouragement is truly wonderful.

Edit-  
For the next one-shot to Intermission, if anyone has a preference as to a scene they want, feel free to leave it in a review.


	14. Twisted Heartache

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 14 Twisted Heartache

The shells were symbolic. A prospect of sincerity and honesty, perhaps, or the attentive idea of an apology and unwanted confession from Mick. Honestly, I had no interest in the latter option.

I couldn't peg what the seashells given by Mick symbolized exactly. They were beautifully perfect, with differing shades of tan and white splashed along the rough top in symmetric horizontal lines, yet the underside a smooth pale pink and glistening white to contrast it, and I found myself mesmerized by them as I ran my fingers along the perfections. Collecting sentimental items, such as shells, wasn't necessarily my forte. Gabrielle LaSalle, my grandmother on my father's side, held that tradition far more than anyone else in the family. However, I _knew _they carried an unknown symbolic message that needed to be solved.

There were a million possibilities as to what Mick could have meant by leaving the shells with the note on the beach hours ago. Lying on the sea blue linen sheets of the second twin bed in the room Ariel and I were forced to share until the day she married, an eerie cadence through the muffled hum of activity downstairs; I tried to be unbiased about my assumptions. I _tried _to remain distant, to only focus on the facts through a psychological and profiling perspective, in hopes to decipher what Mick had intended. However, when all else was logically dismissed, whatever remained had to be fact.

It was denial about the obvious, I knew, and there was no point in trying to conceal it.

The first and foremost thought, when Mick wrote a small note inviting me to the sands beneath the pier to present something _supposedly _significant enough to incite forgiveness for his omissions over the past few months, was to worry that he had found trouble again. Lucas Baines was following us, and we were unsure if Baines was involved with Rais currently or a simple pawn in the grand scheme of things, so my worries were justified. As the evening wore on, I came to another false assumption of selfishness. Mick wasn't the type to lure a woman to a location such as a beach with the intentions of _making out_. It was possible that he would have done something like that in his younger years, but he held too much respect towards me to try.

Not to mention that my father would probably wring his neck if he even tried.

Denial caused me to introvert myself. Fussing with the idea alone for the past forty minutes, alternating between studying the shells in hand and reconstructing the text message I was going to send to excuse myself from joining Mick beneath the pier, I couldn't disband uneasiness. I didn't feel comfortable in the presence of family, which wasn't entirely a challenge given the number of people in the house and the commotion, and the lack of people trying to read my contemplations were somewhat relaxing.

I couldn't bring myself to admit that I may have _fallen _for Mick. That was the central theme of the denial tainting rational thought. _Love _was such an invasive and intimidating word. Whether it may have been true or not, whatever the transparencies between our actions together directed to, I simply could not admit _love _for him in the typical sense of a budding _relationship_. It may have been weakness or the act of a coward, and I was perfectly content with such an accusation because it was true. I could profile serial killers, fight a man twice my size and win, and outfox a vast majority of those in my age group of almost thirty. Yet, I didn't have the courage to admit something as elegantly complicated and ancient as _love_. I adored Mick and that has never been denied. But I didn't honestly have the courage to say that I _loved _him.

Truthfully, I knew he didn't have the courage to reciprocate the words either.

Joining him on the beach would have been self-serving. I knew he was most likely crafting a small castle out of sand inscribed with my name as a portrayal of his deepest apologies, an elaborate work of art that was sure to win any other woman's heart within seconds. It sounded like a gesture from a romance novel, which I knew Mick didn't read and therefore didn't gather the idea from, and had I not been so troubled by his lies of omission earlier, I would have thought it was sweet. He hadn't stepped foot on an actual beach in almost twenty one years, so I rationalized, although probably incorrectly, that the sandcastle was for his own benefit as well. Playing into his request would have led to detrimental confessions between both of us. One thing would to another, and before we knew it, we would admitting everything we had been trying to conceal since the first few months of our partnership in a blaze of passion like some ridiculous Hollywood romance comedy. Heaven knows I couldn't allow that.

Our relationship, if you could call it such a thing, was a complicated and messy thing. When Mick professed his omissions on the Rais case earlier that evening, when he debriefed me on the data that he had been hiding with the absurd illusion that he was _protecting _me, I admittedly felt violated. I felt as though he had been playing me for a fool for the past few months, that he lied with such conviction as he once did to the general populous because he couldn't trust me with the information and he knew I didn't have the intelligence required to see past it. It stung, to be honest, and I was far from forgiveness even hours later. I valued our current relationship as extremely close friends, verging on the prospect of couples but without the hassles and heartbreak a real _relationship _always brought in the end, and the fact that I hadn't seen what he was hiding sooner created doubt in that area.

Perhaps I was giving too much thought towards the symbolism of the shells. It was possible, I came to realize as I scrolled through the text message once more and grimaced at the illegitimacy of it, that the shells were merely beautiful sentimental objects. With Mick, however, nothing was ever truly irrelevant.

I reviewed the text message one last time, finger hovering over the send icon hesitantly.

'_Hey, sorry to say this but I can't meet you under the pier. I'm caught in family matters again. I saved you a plate of fries and fish in the microwave from dinner. Hope you're hungry, because my mother piled the plate with a comment of how you're too skinny. She means well. Take a few pictures of the sandcastle. If I can pull away from the family before midnight, I'll take a quick trip to see it before the tides wash it away. Hurry back. Don't think I can take much more of Ariel's 'suggestions' about what I should wear to the wedding.'_

Yes, that was a blatant lie. I wasn't downstairs with the rest of my family, nor was I involved in the wedding conversations between Ariel, our mother, Helen, or our grandmothers Gabrielle and Marlene, or the poker game and _Monopoly_ in the game room with the rest of them. Lying to Mick in such a manner felt like I was unintentionally spiting him. In actuality, my intentions were merely to find a plausible excuse. The problem with that was finding the actual persuasive words to type. Mick was one of the best liars I have ever seen, and he could spot a lie within seconds of it being told, whether written or in person. Surely he would know that I was lying.

That was how a relationship was destroyed, wasn't it? One lie turns into two, and two turns into half a dozen, and pretty soon the idea of truth and trust is utterly foreign to both parties until there is nothing left.

I couldn't risk our _relatively _perfect relationship in a petty action such as spite, regardless of the fact that he may have started it. We were both mature adults, and the issues between us couldn't be solved with a simple text message. Therefore, with a heavy deflating sigh, I dismissed the message with a swipe of my finger against the touch screen and threw the phone on the bed quilt beside me. I could picture Mick sitting beside his large sandcastle, bare toes digging into the sands in anxious wait, gaze fixed on the moonlit glistening waves rolled ashore before. An explanation for why I hadn't joined him within the past forty five minutes would be demanded once he returned, I was sure, but I didn't know what to tell him.

No sooner had the device hit the soft ocean blue quilt than the sound of approaching footsteps crept through the walls. It echoed heavily to indicate thick sock covered feet against polished wood, clearly from my father, uncle Clyde, or cousin Shane, and I pushed myself into a sitting position quickly in preparation. Someone was bound to notice my absence sooner or later, and I would much rather have Shane or Clyde ask for my presence with the family rather than my father.

I hadn't spoken a word to anyone since my sudden departure. After dinner ended an hour ago, I assisted with cleaning the dishes and tidying the house. What possessed me to lie about Mick's whereabouts and motives for not attending dinner with us, I couldn't honestly say. He wasn't taking an important work conference call with our teammates, and I was fairly certain both my parents and Helen didn't believe that excuse. They didn't question it as I dried the dishes with a cloth before stacking them in the cupboard. Mother most likely could already tell that Mick had done something to upset me, and I would go to her for advice as always if needed. Thankfully she didn't try to push the subject. While it was comforting to see that my parents were starting to take the hint that I didn't always need their opinions, it was a bit unusual for them.

The dinning room table wasn't large enough to seat fourteen people comfortably, so the patio outside became a sort of alternate sitting area. We traversed back and forth at times, plate of cheeseburgers or grilled fish or French fries in hand, and chatted with family until everyone was finished. A crucial component to a family reunion is _catching up_, or discussing what had between then and the last time they got together for a reunion. Needless to say, I wasn't keen on interactions from anyone. For the most part I stayed to myself in a corner of the patio and tried to appear as invisible as possible.

Leo and Dustin, Helen's second and third sons, engaged in a food fight over something ridiculous shortly before dinner ended. They were scolded by Helen and ordered to scrub the patio clean as punishment. In typical brotherly fashion, Leo argued that Dustin started the fight and vice-versa, but neither of them was able to con their mother out of the punishment. Leo was seventeen years old while Dustin was twenty, and I honestly thought they would have had more manners than that. Then again, Leo wasn't prone to good decisions and Dustin had a tendency to be rather brash with his choice of words.

Lack of a television in the living room drew a displeased rant from Grandfather Darrell as he was dragged by my father into the game room. A television had been set some time ago probably for that very reason. He was a sports fanatic at heart, and when he missed a baseball game, he could get very adamant. Clyde and his wife, Veronica, began a poker game with my father, while playing _Monopoly _at the same time. Only uncle Clyde would think that was a brilliant idea. Helen's husband, Jeffery, and Shane followed suit shortly after it started and Leo and Dustin were allowed to attend as well once they finished cleaning the patio.

In the living room, the women of the family seemed to flock to the couch and floor and recliners with binders full of the necessary wedding details. They were discussing dresses and tuxes for everyone else, last minute flower and seating arrangements, and making the last adjustments to the wedding cake designs. Unfortunately they were rather loud at times, and didn't always agree on a subject. For instance, Ariel had planned for a simple pale pink or Easter blue for the dress color of the bridesmaid, which I had a feeling was going to be me and they just hadn't announced it yet because knew I would throw a fit, to match the sandy white flare of her own wedding gown. Gabrielle didn't agree, stating that it wouldn't fit with the décor or the beach around them, and tried to press for a bright sea blue or aqua green.

She had been married to granddad Lawrence for forty seven years before he passed from a massive stroke several years ago. If I were Ariel, I would definitely go to her for advice on how to set a wedding and how to make the marriage last as long as possible.

I retreated after Marlene mentioned my name in context with a party the night before the wedding. The bachelor party was being held the same night for Ariel's fiancé, and I knew Mick didn't want to attend any more than I wished to attend the party for Ariel. Time alone to clear my thoughts was appreciated. One of the only reasonable benefits to having a house full of people, I supposed, was that it was easy to slip away from the group when no one was paying any attention towards you.

The serenity of solitude passed, however, when my father stood in the doorway. He leaned against the frame with his shoulder, a tight worried expression on aging features, and studied me as if he thought I was in some sort of trouble again. Something akin to relaxation had kept him occupied for the past several hours, although I never could recall a moment when he wasn't keeping an eye over his shoulder in caution, and I could tell by his posture that the presence of family warranted some comfort for him. Why? I could only fathom accusations without proper proof. It seemed, as I watched him eat dinner and chat with Clyde and Veronica solemnly, that something was wrong. There was something he wasn't telling anyone, a secret that caused his change in behavior, and the looming anxiety dwelling in the pit of my chest was remarkably similar to that I had felt when I knew something was drastically wrong with a situation but could peg what it was yet.

I dropped the shells Mick had given me onto the bedside table beside the note, lamp, and alarm clock, and drew my bare legs up. The quilt was soft and warm, and I had the sudden desire to wrap myself in it to fend off the chill the house thermostat had been set to. The shorts and loose tee shirt I had been wearing on the beach hadn't been changed, although I did run my feet under the shower in the bathroom to rinse off any sand shortly before dinner, and I was just waiting until later that night to change into a set of pajamas. Preferably after I contacted Mick and ensured that another trip on the beach wasn't necessary.

"Are you hiding up here?" He asked as he entered the room completely, standing near Ariel's untouched bed with his stance relaxed and his arms folded behind his back. A quick glance at the unpacked luggage bags at the end of my own bed made him tilt his head slightly in curiosity. "I thought you were unpacking." He stated it far more calmly than I predicted, almost sincere within the curiosity.

"Changed my mind at the last second. I was actually just going to call Mick and see if he's done with the conference call…" I gave a wave towards the phone beside me as I sat cross-legged.

My father interrupted quietly, "Gina, don't lie to me. He was never on a conference call. It doesn't take more than an hour with Cooper, even if Fickler is involved. So what did he say to piss you off?" His words were strict just as they always were, but the tone left quite a bit to be desired. It was almost nonchalant, as if he was trying to divert attention from himself and back onto Mick.

Had I not been a profiler for the past three years, his diversion would have done its purpose. Instead, I felt my brow knit and returned the favor fluently. "It doesn't take a profiler to see that you're hiding something. So what has you and mom and even Grandma Gabrielle scared?"

He looked as though I had slapped him across the face. Normally, I wouldn't have dared to use that quick-witted tone against him. He tended to get very angry when someone bested him, whether physically or verbally. But I was feeling brave at the moment, though I didn't know why, and the question did hold merit as he gaped at me in stunned silence for several long seconds. "That was…smart, Gina. I'm surprised at you."

I forced a small smile in apology, grabbing one of the shells on the nightstand to twist it in my fingers as I replied honestly. "I found out that Mick has been withholding important information concerning the current case we've been working since this past December. Not because he's being selfish, necessarily, but because he's convinced that it's the only way to protect me against the unsub and anyone else the unsub may send after us to keep us from digging too deep. The problem is that I don't need protected. I can take care of myself just fine."

My father gave a quick nod in understanding, a smirk ghosting his lips. "Has anyone ever told you that you have your mother's flare? It's one of the things I love about both of you."

That was the final straw, sort to speak. The change in behavior could have been explained if he had reached an epiphany with Ariel's wedding. Witnessing his youngest daughter grow to marry was bound to bring some realization that he had missed a good portion of our childhood because of his work with the Navy. However, another scenario would also explain his behavior. If he was ill in some detrimental way, like my gut-twisting instinct was implying, then the behavior was more about redemption for what little time he had left and less about the wedding. He didn't _appear _ill. Sure, there were bags under his eyes and lines of stress on his features that were much more pressing as the day with family carried on. But I witnessed the same look on Grandmother Gabrielle's features as well as my mother.

The last option honestly didn't occur to me until we actually were able to talk without interruptions.

"I answered your question, now you answer mine. What are you trying to hide from everyone?" I was fully aware that my tone was nearing begging, that I was practically pleading with large doe eyes and a sad but scared pout that always worked when I was a child. It never got me extra candy at Christmas time, or extra gifts for my birthdays, but it did give me answers. At that moment, answers were the only thing that mattered.

He sighed deeply as he took a seat upon the edge of Ariel's bed, gripping the knees of his jeans nervously before pinching the bridge of his nose. My father wasn't the type of man to be nervous when talking with his children or family. He was brave and crass at times and independent as hell, and could order an entire fleet of Navy officers in the ranks below him with just a few words. In all my years, I had never seen him appear afraid or intimidated or even nervous. The look in his eyes as he avoided my gaze, the fear and anxiety and illusion that he was ready to cry at any moment, was not something I ever imaged I would see. To be honest, I would have rather shot myself in the foot than see him look so defeated.

When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper with the slightest hint of sorrow between the edges. "I wasn't planning to tell you or Ariel or anyone else until after the wedding. I don't want her to postpone the wedding because she's worried about me…"

"You're ill, aren't you?" The interruption was probably not necessary, but it slipped through my lips before I could stop it.

Unfortunately he nodded attentively and swallowed thickly to strengthen his voice. "I've been getting these headaches for the past year or so. At first, they were nothing to worry about. But then they began to get worse and more frequent. Your mother convinced me to see a doctor a few months ago, back in January, when I had a nosebleed that lasted for almost half an hour. They said that it's a brain tumor, cancerous, and they can't remove it without a severely high risk of death. I've been taking medication for it, but at the rate it's growing and without further intervention, they estimate I've got the rest of the year before it becomes crippling. I've only told your grandmother because I didn't know who else besides your mother to go to."

The moment of silence between us seemed to last for hours. A thickness to the room became suffocating, words became meaningless amongst themselves, and there was virtually nothing left to say that didn't sound ridiculous. The understanding of his admission, the prospect of my father _dying _before he could see his oldest marry or his future grandchildren, seemed to avoid me completely. I felt as though, for the first time in my life, words were inadequate.

Tears would have been rational. Fear would have been understandable. Hell, any kind of outward physical reaction towards the news within the first two minutes would have been acceptable. But I could only stare at him with my mouth agape, my chest tight as if the confession had tried to rip my heart out and the expression on my features absolute disbelief.

For a few moments, I actually considered that he was pulling some kind of prank. It was still April Fool's Day. While he had never participated in pranks, maybe one of my cousins or even my mother convinced him. That was absurd, I knew, but I couldn't dismiss the thought immediately.

I finally managed to break the silence between us with a quick swipe of my fingers against my eyes, trying to mask the sudden wetness as dread twisted in my stomach. "No, you're not _dying…_" The mumbled denial was pointless, but desperate all the same. My father shook his head sadly, standing and approaching with open arms as he tried to stop my blatant refusal rant. "You _can't _die. Not before you walk me down the aisle when I get married or see your future grandchildren or…"

"Gina!" He hissed as he gripped my shoulders tightly, shaking me sternly to look up at him. It was the look in his eyes that sent me to my knees on the bed, the unprecedented terror and regret in his voice that warranted my arms around his neck in the tightest embrace like a desperate child, and the sinking realization of the entire situation that caused me to bury my face in the crook of his neck.

He couldn't _die_. Perhaps stating such a helpless thing was childish. There was nothing anyone could do to stop fate, and if fate deemed that he only had a year left before a cancerous brain tumor killed him, I had to make the most of it. I felt obligated to help him make up for every missed birthday, trip to _Disney _and _Orlando_, and dance he didn't chaperone during my high school and middle school days. Not necessarily in that order, of course, but in some fashion to portray that I didn't _want _him to leave us.

I may have fought with my father because we didn't always agree. But after his admission, after seeing just how afraid of dying from something as devastating as a cancerous brain tumor, I no longer saw an overbearing man that had ruined his relationship with his children with his absence over the years. I saw a man trying to make amends before his time was finished.

* * *

"I honestly didn't think you would join me, darling."

When I was young and living in a new house stationed somewhere near a beach, the beach became my safe haven. Whether it was in California or Hawaii, Florida or Maine, the beach was the only place I could go to for solace. Apparently, despite my age, that sense of solitude and serenity hadn't faded with the years.

The section of beach nearest the pier was almost vacant at just past eleven. Scarce few people occupied the sands after the tide had risen with the moon, scattered about with flashlights and pales in hand for shell hunting, or chatting comfortably with their significant other near the water's edge. It was still overcast with the threat of an approaching rainstorm that had yet to soil our presence on the beach, a faint chill in the air as the breeze nipped at the bare skin of my legs and past the unbuttoned sweater jacket I had thrown over my shoulders before I left the house. Moonlight flickered past the clouds to illuminate the sand, and the bright constellations above were truly brilliant.

I traversed the sand in silence for thirty minutes before I reached the pier. My sandals crunched the dampened sand and shells beneath my feet with every step, the sand itself clinging to my bare toes, and the journey was admittedly comforting in itself. The smell of salt water was intoxicating and the gentle push and pull of the waves crashing against the shore was beautiful. I could have lost myself to the rhythm of the ocean, to the sense of belonging and relaxation it created, and been perfectly content with it. However, there was something I needed to take care of first.

Mick was found ten feet from the pier. The tide had raised just enough to capture a large majority of the pier pillars holding it up, but the large twenty or so feet before it reached normal land was still dry. He was lying on his back, a blanket from his tattered tan bag splayed beneath him and the bag itself used as a rather lumpy pillow. His hands were folded on his stomach comfortably and his gaze remained plastered on the sky above as he was seemingly enthralled with the stars. Even as I approached with flashlight in hand and beach towel tucked under one arm, his words were spoken low and impassive yet he didn't look in my direction. I could see the sand clinging to his knee length shorts and legs, his sandals thrown on the sands beside him carelessly. Smears of saltwater darkened his tee shirt and the messy state of his short hair suggested that he hadn't cared about outward appearances.

Before him, several feet from the rolling waves of the sea, a sandcastle stood proud and elegant. It was fascinating and elegant, truly far more miraculous than I anticipated. The entire structure stood just over three feet tall and five feet wide in a jagged rectangular shape. Its walls were somehow smooth with the slightest illusion of false miniature bricks etched in the sand, windows and doors were the most vibrant and perfect seashells he could find, and the array of various towers scattered around the interior courtyard was amazing. Moreover, the garden of shells pressed into the courtyard was the most striking feature, as well as my surname spelled in the center with bright miniature spiraled shells.

I couldn't help but stare at it for several moments, using the flashlight to scale over the ridges and shells in awe. When Mick finally pulled his gaze from the stars, I flashed the light in his eyes before settling it on the sandcastle and fought to conceal an appreciative grin. "I almost didn't come. You were just going to sit here and wait until I caved, weren't you?"

He shrugged as a smile tugged at his lips, sitting up with a faint grimace and shifting on the blanket to give me room to sit beside him. I blamed Lucas Baines for the new bruises he sustained after his collision with the hood of a car earlier, and clearly said bruises were sore to the touch given the way he was careful when moving. "I can be patient when needed." Any other circumstance, that would have been a lie. Mick Rawson was not a patient man, except when waiting for his prey. I wasn't his _prey,_ though, and this was nothing like his sniper missions overseas.

I spread the beach towel beside him, covering the sandy blanket partially, and folded my legs beneath myself as I took residence beside him. "Patience is not in your nature." I countered, twisting the flashlight into an off position and leaning against his shoulder. The close proximity was unexpected by him, but he didn't shy away when I rest my head against his shoulder and breathed a heavy sigh to quell my worries. He smelled of sand and fading deodorant, which wasn't entirely pleasant, and I could tell by the entire scene that he had worked hard to create the best sandcastle. The implications towards the action, what neither of us could admit, began to nag at me again.

Mick shifted once more to wrap his arm around my shoulders in comfort, frowning deeply when I didn't resist or attempt to distance myself. "Got in another argument with dear old dad, eh?" His Welsh-English accent thickened slightly in a subconscious portrayal of concern.

Hesitation mounted again, and this time I had no true way to disband it.

My father didn't want anyone else to know that he was dying until after the wedding. That was why he had gone to such lengths to bring me to the family reunion; despite the fact that he knew I was skilled with profiling. If anyone in the family was going to realize that he was hiding something like a cancerous brain tumor, it would be me.

I couldn't find the words to explain that to Mick. How could I tell him that my father was _dying?_ I could hardly stand the thought without feeling tightness in my chest that mimicked panic and dread. Therefore, if I couldn't allow the thought to fester internally, how could I admit it aloud? I could feel the stress tightening my features, drawing my eyes stern until I wanted nothing more than to cry and sob like a damned child, and the lump in my throat at the words threatened to choke me.

Mick's grip on my shoulder tightened minutely as I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to disguise the sudden wet feeling. He raised a curious eyebrow and conceded politely, "It's none of my business, I know. If you'd like to discuss it, just to make you feel better…"

I choked on a desperate laugh at his uncharacteristic politeness. Of course I could tell him anything. He was always there to discuss matters that troubled me, whether he understood it or not. There was no patronizing effect from him, which I hated from everyone else, and his outlook on situations was somewhat profound. I trusted him and cherished his advice, and just talking with him always made me feel as though the situation wasn't as dire as it could have been. He helped me see the silver lining in things, and I knew I had the same effect on him. So I wanted to tell him everything my father had told me. I wanted to sit there and rant for a short while before sobbing into his shoulder like an immature child. But I could only accept that possibility to a point, which didn't involve the damned tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

"I feel as though you are going to throttle me on the head for not reading your mind, love. It's not a pleasant feeling."

My fingers dug into my eyes roughly, trying to hinder the tears as I drew my legs up to my chest protectively. After another long moment of silence between us, I gathered enough courage to pull myself from his arm and breathed through the sob working its way into my throat.

"He's dying." I mumbled, barely able to speak the words without choking on them. Mick attempted to interrupt, but I continued before he could question me. "My dad, I mean. He's got a cancerous brain tumor that can't be removed. The doctors say that he's got the rest of the year without more medical intervention. Even then, there's no guarantee that it'll work and he'll live any longer. He hasn't told anyone else but my mother and grandmother and now me because he's afraid that Ariel will postpone the wedding. We may fight and argue a lot, but he's still my dad and I still love him. I don't want him to _die_, ever." The explanation was spoken rapidly, like I couldn't get the words out of my mouth fast enough, and the actual verbal admission stung just as bad as the moment my father had actually told me.

Mick took a few seconds to contemplate my words. He turned his gaze to the ocean past the sandcastle, shaking his head sadly, but didn't dare show outward pity. The phrase _'I'm sorry to hear that'_ would have been insulting at that moment. Therefore, probably because he knew it would piss me off if he said anything, he exhaled exaggeratedly and drew his arm over my shoulder to pull me close once more. His free hand snaked to his satchel behind him and withdrew a small travel packet of tissues.

I sank into his grip, using the tissues to fend off the wetness spilling from my eyes, and took comfort in the whispered reassurances in my ear. The whispered words were less true than I had hoped. While I did relish in the warmth of his presence, of his confident reassurances and gentleness shared between us, I had no desire to hear falsities again.

It wasn't going to be _alright_, regardless of how many times he whispered it in my ear. My father was dying. An international mass murderer had his sights set on Mick. The family reunion and wedding I was forced to attend was gnawing at my nerves. Supposedly a cousin to Mick that disappeared from the world in 1993 was back from the grave and stalking us, with no knowledge if he was or wasn't working for Rais. And I was too much of a damned coward to admit that I may have _loved _Mick more than I should. Yet, with all of that, he thought the situation was going to be _alright. _

That wasn't blind optimism, it was hope.

Mick pulled away after several minutes. He stiffened rigidly, a frown plastered on his features within seconds, and groped for the flashlight I had been carrying hurriedly. Once his fingers wrapped around the handle he twisted it until the end lit and maneuvered on the blanket to survey the immediate area behind us. I knew that expression on his features and the alertness of his posture. It was a heightened survival instinct, always knowing when someone was watching him, and one I doubted anyone else could understand in the same manner as I did.

Someone was watching us from the direction of the pier, hidden in the shadows of the wooden structure pillars, the flashlight in Mick's hand barely piercing through the darkness. There was only one person who would be spying on us from the shadows. Thankfully, instead of reacting poorly in hopes to catch Lucas Baines in the act, Mick simply rose to his feet in a heartbeat.

He swept the flashlight past the pillars and towards the pier docks itself whilst maneuvering himself in front of me protectively. Now that Lucas Baines knew Mick was remaining vigilant in hopes to catch him, I knew he wouldn't be so reckless as to approach closely. Mick most likely already came to that understanding as well, which was why he seemed to be searching for something less prominent. What that something was, I didn't know.

"Mick, talk to me…" I whispered sharply, pushing myself to my feet. Mick mimicked my steps as I tried to stand beside him, keeping himself before me until I thought I was going to shove him out of the way because it was beginning to frustrate me. He raised a hand to signify silence and took a step towards the pier.

No sooner had his foot hit the sand than he threw himself backwards and into me. His arms wrapped around me as the flashlight fell against the sand beside him. The force was unexpected and the momentum left no room to brace myself. I fell to the blanket on my front with a muffled gasp of shock, the air knocked out of my lungs momentarily as his body covered my own and his hands held me down. For several moments I had no idea what the hell he was doing. His breath was quick and warm against the crook of my shoulder, tousling my hair to tickle my ear, and the sudden adrenaline rush made everything noticeable. Every heartbeat between us, distanced footstep of innocents or even Lucas Baines, sudden thunderous crash of the sea against the shore, and passing car on the street nearby was too noticeable, yet didn't serve to tell me what the hell was happening or why. A visual of the possible threat wasn't possible with my face pressed into the blanket and away from the pier. I squirmed against Mick, trying to throw him off, and managed to bite out a threat to make him sing opera if he didn't comply.

He pushed himself off of me a few moments later and offered his hand to assist. I refused it, naturally, and gave him a scolding glare to match the bombardment of questions on the tip of my tongue. However, the rant seemed ridiculous when I saw why he had thrown himself atop of me in such a brash fashion. It was for my own protection.

Because the black and red striped carbon hunting arrow sticking through the side wall of the sandcastle could have killed one of us.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! Hello people! It's been too long, I know. Things have been busy and stressful and writing always seems to take the hit for that. My deepest apologies for the delay, really.  
So, I decided to revert back to what I've always excelled at because it's comfortable. Gina's perspective is easier to write, for me, this way. Anyway, there's a lot to be considered in this chapter. Gina's views about her relationship with Mick have changed drastically, verging on an epiphany, and that holds merit to the storyline between them. Then I needed to further the background with her father a bit, and giving him only a year left to live really works well with the story between them. He needs to make up for his absence during her childhood, and she needs to accept that he doesn't necessarily hate Mick or the choices she's made in life. This route gives a way to achieve all of that. Lastly, the cliffhanger. I needed to accomplish two goals with this. The first being the description of the sandcastle Mick made for Gina. I think it's quite telling towards his unspoken feelings for her. Second, I needed to set Lucas Baines in play again. The arrow is a message for them. What that message is, I don't want to spoil it yet.  
For the time being I believe that covers everything. Reviews are loved and appreciated. Things have been depressing lately - with my sister in the hospital again because of a damn lung infection that won't die and verging on bankruptcy - so reviews would be great fuel to stave off depression. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far. The encouragement and support is sincerely appreciated.


	15. This Is What We're Up Against

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 15 This Is What We're Up Against

Rais was a monster in a man's skin. He was brilliant and meticulous, sadistic and unnecessarily brutal, maniacal and mentally disturbed in every sense of the word. There was no compassion or sympathy, hesitance or leniency, which made him the worst serial murderer the world had seen in almost a century. Beth was even willing to gauge longer than a century given everything she had read about him in Mick and Cooper's notes. Men like him, those who manipulated people to do their bidding and formed a grand existence from the skeletons of others, were the monsters of the world.

Although Beth couldn't admit it aloud, she was terrified of Rais. The evidence of his actions against humanity, the photos of torture victims she had seen in the files compiled over the years, the prospect of the man manipulating the lives of innocents in a manner that benefited him for decades to come, was sickening. It wasn't the gore that bothered her, necessarily, but the mental images each piece of data brought.

Her imagination had always been useful to her, but in instances such as this, she hated it. She hated the thought of Rais destroying the Rawson/Baines family so long ago, the idea that he convinced a young teenager to somehow join him for whatever purpose by using the grief of his family as leverage, and the image of a youthful Mick at twenty one being brutally tortured with his teammates in Iraq. It wasn't a coincidence that Rais appeared to have ties to the family, and then years later he was found by the same man overseas. Beth was certain of that.

She despised, although slightly less because she was understandably prejudice when it came to her surrogate family, the thought of Rais kidnapping and brainwashing a ten year old child after butchering her family. Nina Surkov remained an elusive intricate subject in the Rais organization for the majority of her life. Rais provided a surrogate family for the otherwise troubled girl since youth, and she would undoubtedly die for the man she considered a father if forced into the appropriate situation. He supposedly cared for her, raised and sheltered and trained her into something verging on perfect. But all of that was nothing more than an elaborate manipulation. He didn't _truly_ love her as a daughter, nor did he _truly _have any intentions of protecting her once she failed him.

Surkov was a valuable pawn in his plans. Once she served her purpose, regardless of how much she may have loved him as a father figure, she became useless. Rais didn't _need _her anymore, and because of that she became a liability that needed to be silenced.

Rais didn't _honestly _care for anyone other than himself. Months ago, when the team was working to find Surkov in Alaska, they profiled that Surkov was cared for by Rais. She was a weakness to him that could have provided enough leverage to destroy the entire operation if caught. However, Beth came to realize as she stared at the dying Russian woman on Cooper's office couch before her in muted shock, they were wrong.

Surkov was dying because she must have come to the same realization months ago. The last time anyone saw her, she was in Moscow towards the end of January. It was unclear if she was working alone or with Rais, but Beth was willing to bet that she was actually on the run from him. That was the only logical scenario that coincided with Cooper's quick explanation minutes before and everything they had been researching lately. Surkov made one too many mistakes with her last mission in Alaska, and Rais was most likely unwilling to allow her to continue when she was clearly a liability. He could have tried to kill her, which was consistent with the reports that she was injured from what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the shoulder during her last sighting, and somehow it didn't turn as planned. It wasn't specified, but Beth read between the lines enough to guess that her partner who betrayed her was also the same man who smuggled her into the country with a fake alias and life. That man, given the evidence, was most likely Lucas Baines.

Cooper's explanation was brief yet informative, giving no room for questions as he stepped aside to allow Flores a better view of the woman unconsciously splayed on the couch. The supplies bought were tossed to the floor whilst Flores pulled the blankets back to reveal the saturated black sweater clinging to her skin, a tightly knit frown creasing aged features as she mumbled something akin to a curse beneath her breath.

No one had the mental stamina to question why and how Surkov contacted Cooper from a disposable burner phone, which was conveniently not in her possession when she was found on the roof of the gym building by Cooper shortly after the conversation. An ID wasn't found on her person, but a small handgun and combat knife were set more out of habit than anything else. Supposedly she explained that her partner, not specified as Lucas Baines, betrayed her. They were hiding somewhere unmentioned in DC until a fellow assassin by the name of Jonah followed orders from Rais and tracked them to the United States. An ambush took them by surprise a few days prior. Those sent by Rais, with the exception of Jonah, were killed in self defense. Unfortunately Surkov was shot in the lower left side during the ambush.

The bullet was a through-and-through, had been stitched rather precariously by her partner, and a nasty infection had settled into the wound due to their polluted living environment. Surkov was already too thin and appeared to be in shock from the liters of blood lost over the past several days. She looked gaunt and frail beneath the two layers of emergency blankets tucked around her on Cooper's couch. Even after Sabrina and Flores stitched the wound again, because apparently scaling the fire escape on the back of the building whilst avoiding the CIA operatives outside was not a brilliant move to preserve the stitches, she was suffering from a dangerously high fever that caused her complexion to mimic sweat-slicked porcelain. She was going to die from the infection or the poison Flores was confident her partner injected into her. Whether it took hours or days, Flores was adamant that their best lead on the Rais case was going to die without medical assistance from a real doctor.

Beth may have hated Surkov for the choices she made with Rais, but she didn't want her to die. Not without telling them where Rais was or any other crucial details to the Rais case, at least. Perhaps that was selfish and cruel, but the woman did willingly care for the man who brutally tortured and ruined her youngest teammate. She had no desire to show her any kind of compassion, regardless of what mess the Russian woman was involved in.

The best lead they had to finally stop a monster was dying on a couch in Cooper's office, and there was virtually nothing anyone could do to save her without proper supplies. She couldn't be taken to a hospital, despite how much she desperately needed it, and Cooper made the conscious decision to not contact Fickler, Mick, or Gina with the sudden development.

Fickler only had so much leverage in international agencies such as Interpol or the CIA. Beth doubted even he could protect them from prosecution if their act of harboring an international felon was brought to attention. Likewise, Mick and Gina wouldn't handle the information well either. Beth knew they couldn't remain oblivious forever, but she agreed with Cooper in the fact that a better and safer arrangement had to be made for Surkov before anyone else became involved in the situation.

Rais was a monster, a manipulator of the worst kind, and he would stop at nothing to ensure his own safety first and foremost. Harboring Surkov, allowing her to stay in Cooper's office when Rais sent another assassin to eliminate her, meant that Rais had to go through Cooper and his team to reach her. They were in danger from Jonah and Rais. Both of which were most definitely relentless in their methods. Surkov posed a threat that had to be dealt with appropriately, and Rais must have known that she would result to whatever measures to survive because that was the life he taught her.

Survival was paramount.

Beth came to realize, as she studied the younger woman with attentive and distrustful eyes whilst leaning against Cooper's desk, only partially listening to Flores and Cooper's conversation about what they should do with her as the night grew longer, that Rais was still in control.

The bastard was still holding the strings to Surkov, and she had inadvertently led them into the brilliantly manipulative clutches of a madman.

* * *

Fists slammed into the weathered punching bag with enough concussive force to be audible. The length of chain spanning between the ceiling and metal hook rattled with every brutal blow, echoing throughout the otherwise empty gym. Every attack was precise, calculated within fractured seconds in an impressive portrayal of skill and familiarity, and Beth could only wince at every expressive motion. Thick gray tape had been wrapped around the center of the bag some time ago to hide the missing patches worn into it over the years. Fists rutted into the gray in brisk and fluent motions. Starchy white stood in blurry contract, protective wraps taken from storage against pale aged hands and knuckles.

James appeared oblivious to Beth's presence. He didn't acknowledge her arrival in the gym, nor did he look away or hesitate from his flow of relentlessness. His stance was similar to that of which Mick used when sparing, strict yet surprisingly agile, and Beth was admittedly intrigued by his fervor. The attentive concentration spoke volumes towards anxiety he was trying to dispel through physical activity.

With both middle fingers missing, Beth silently wondered if such a brutal action caused pain for the Englishman. It was a ridiculous thought, she refuted with a long exhalation as her fingers clung to the warmth of her steaming ceramic coffee mug, because James showed no signs of pain. He was too focused, too determined to beat his anxiety into that bag, to possibly care about anything else.

Stress was understandable, really, and Beth didn't question his motives. Beth had only been out of the conference room for a few minutes. The air of the conference room had been stale and thick with tension and she was eager to distance herself for a short time. It was getting late in the evening, with night set outside the building and the hours drawing closer to midnight, and Beth knew Cooper's call for break was appreciated by everyone. Prophet and Penelope took the time to contact Mick and Gina in Florida, although he was instructed by Cooper to not tell them about their latest case discoveries, whilst keeping Nikola busy. The rest of her teammates, Sabrina, Flores, and Cooper, occupied Cooper's office.

Nina Surkov hadn't woken over the hours but Flores wanted to ensure that she was still alive, and Sabrina, much to Beth's surprise, was exceptionally useful with her knowledge of medicine. She only gave a brief mention of attending a three year stint at a medical school in London shortly before James returned from Iraq. Apparently she resigned her dreams of becoming a doctor after she married James and moved to Ireland with a new life for both of them.

They had been working tirelessly on the new case details for hours. A bit of fresh air and new scenery was needed for a better perspective.

In the absence of previous details into whoever Jonah was, they decided to work backwards with Surkov. They needed to know who her partner was, although Beth had a feeling it was actually Lucas Baines, and where they had been hiding. She didn't have an ID with her when she was found, so they didn't know what alias was used to gain access into the country. More than likely she and her partner used joint aliases to avoid attention. They probably settled for the illusion of newly wedded husband and wife immigrating to the States, paid someone to produce the appropriate paperwork to fool the world, and made their home in an abandoned building somewhere within walking distance of the office. Without knowing how long she had been walking the streets, and being unable to contact Fickler in hopes to have her current image scanned into the immigration database for her alias, they were left with assumptions to slowly disprove or confirm.

If they found the building Surkov and her partner confided in, and the team of assassins killed in self defense were still inside somewhere, they could find DNA evidence to confirm Lucas Baines' involvement with her as well as substantially further their knowledge of who Rais sent after Surkov. Essentially, the only hope in finding who was sent to kill Surkov and therefore became a threat to the team when Surkov came to them for assistance rested with that building.

Beth winced as James slammed his fist into the punching bag with much more force. The pace became erratic for several swings, breathing heavily as sweat ran to his brow and down his neck, and Beth had to admit that it sounded as though he had broken something. She tilted her head to the side as a comment came to mind, silently debating for a moment if she should interrupt before he truly broke skin or bone, and settled for a more sensible action instead. As she placed her coffee mug on the metal bench nearby, beside a ratty old towel and partially empty bottle of water he had stashed for the time being, she gathered the towel and bottle in hand and approached with caution.

James commanded the best British SAS Special Operations team for roughly three years. He was skilled with hand-to-hand combat and could probably adapt to any situation if pressed to. If he could control Mick during his youth for almost three years, he was certainly not someone to dismiss on a whim. The years hadn't been kind to him and the scars left by Rais etched themselves into his behavior in the form of severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Therefore Beth had to be careful when approaching him. If he felt she was a threat in any way, even though she had proven that she clearly wasn't dangerous to him, he would react on instinct.

"You're going to break something." She announced as she held the towel and water towards him, standing far enough away to portray understanding.

He paused after a final undercut blow, resting his forehead against the worn leather briefly. Confusion knitted across his brow as he turned his head to her and gripped the sides of the bag. Attentive eyes fell to the items in hand distrustfully. "You're concern is duly noted, Agent Griffith." He stated with as little emotion to his English tone as possible. There was no hesitation when he snatched the towel from her and began wiping it against the sweat on his face, and his eyes never once left her.

It wasn't until he raised his hands that Beth realized her blatant staring. She pulled her gaze away immediately and offered an apologetic expression. James shrugged it away nonchalantly, as if he didn't care and was accustomed to the inevitable curious stares from others, and motioned for the water bottle in her hand. "No, it doesn't hurt." He answered her unspoken question as he inspected the bottle for signs of tampering. Beth could profile his paranoia easily enough, but she still felt a bit uneasy at his lack of trust in anyone other than wife. "To be quite honest, I haven't had more than phantom pains in both hands for ages. You get used to it after a while."

Beth swallowed her immediate comment and nodded in understanding. She tried to remember what her father had said about amputee victims once, seeing as he was a well respected brain surgeon at one time. Phantom pain was not necessarily uncommon, but it was hardly understood in the world of science yet. He always thought it was caused by the severed nerves once a limb was removed, and the brain tried to compensate for the loss but couldn't which inflicted phantom pain in the amputated area. However, if all James felt in his hands in the form of pain was phantom, it was probable that the nerves controlling pain in the hands were damaged beyond repair.

Meaning he wouldn't notice skinned knuckles, and Sabrina most likely had to be the one to watch him carefully because of it.

"You know, most people wouldn't take to a punching bag if they were missing fingers." Beth mused aloud, shaking herself out of her thoughts to give a pointed nod to the bag.

James raised an eyebrow as he took a long swig of water before responding, "There's not much else I can do. Cooper gave very strict instructions to stay indoors until he could find a suitable hiding place for Surkov. I could have run the length of the gym, but I didn't feel like it."

"And you feel better after abusing that poor punching bag? What did it ever do to you?" Beth quipped with a smirk. The goal was to divert the subject into something far less unnerving. Under any other circumstance, she would banter with one of her teammates to draw the tension from the situation. But everyone else seemed to be too busy with their own devices, and Beth was left with an Englishman she hardly knew.

James, much to her surprise, fought to suppress a laugh as he chocked on his water for a few moments. A snide smirk drifted to his features as he shrugged and capped the water bottle. "Funny. Use that line often, eh?"

"It works miracles on Mick and Prophet."

The Englishman closed the distance to the bench as she spoke. He draped the towel around his neck, his sweat stained hunter green tee shirt clinging to his skin loosely, and began unwrapping the protective padding from his hands. Beth studied his movements for a few unspoken seconds, subconsciously noting the lengthy scars on bare arms and the hint of a tattoo dripping below the right bicep sleeve of his shirt, and tried to ignore the grueling imaginative scenario every scar created. James noticed her gaze on the glint of the tattoo and paused in his unraveling to glance at it. "Got it when I was given command of Special Operations Two."

"Did Mick and Liam have the same one too?" Beth questioned curiously. She didn't dare try to sit beside him on the bench, but chose to rest her shoulder against the punching bag instead. The response slid from her mouth without a second thought, and at James' frown she mentally pinched herself for the question. It seemed prudent, she thought, because it was a curiosity unanswered for the longest time. She had seen the scars of a violently removed tattoo on Mick shortly after they began working together and he had never explained them.

James had been rather reluctant to mention more than necessary to the case about his old teammates. He didn't know who Jonah was or what connection he had to Rais, nor did he recall ever hearing the name during his time in captivity. Anything regarding his days of capture was hesitated and only coaxed by his wife, and Beth could see the anxiety building when asked to recite anything useful from memory. The memories themselves were haunting, yet so much more reliable than anything Mick could ever recall.

However, Mick was _Rawson _and Liam was _Holmes_, and there were virtually no signs of respect for the Welshman in any capacity. He obviously thought of Liam as the victim in the mess while Mick was the cause for everything.

"No, they didn't." He answered in a low tone, returning to his hands to avoid eye contact. "Holmes had this bizarre phobia of needles, and Rawson couldn't sit still long enough." He hesitated to continue. A shake of his head and an amused smirk suggested that the memory was entertaining in some fashion. "That was always a joke between them. Rawson was the best sniper we had, could sit for days on a perch without moving a muscle, but when he wasn't hunting for his targets, he couldn't sit still long enough to do much of anything. Used to drive me crazy because he'd get distracted with another task ten minutes into the first one…"

"Only when women were involved." Beth finished with a short chuckle. "He still does that sometimes. Well, _did_. It's been a while since he moved in with Gina. She keeps him grounded."

"So I've heard."

Uncertainty in his tone caused Beth's smile to fade. She pierced her lip for a second as she questioned, "Why can't you say their names?" James appeared confused by her words, as if he didn't understand their relevance, so she clarified, "Mick or Michael, Liam or William, you never refer to them by their first names. It's always Rawson or Holmes."

James offered a dismissive shrug, clearly uneasy with the line of conversation, and responded with a carelessness that made Beth resist a cringe in disdain, "That's their names. Second Lieutenants Michael Rawson and William Holmes. It's just how the ranks work in the British Army. Though, from what Cooper's told me, Rawson only moved up to Lieutenant a year after he returned to the field and hasn't been promoted since. He's never played well with others and that reflects poorly towards a promotion of any kind."

"You would think they would give him a better rank considering he's the best sniper they have." Beth pondered aloud.

"It doesn't necessarily work like that with snipers. The more inconspicuous the army makes them; the less likely the enemy will put a bounty on their head. That's the basic idea, anyway. Doesn't always work, unfortunately. Rawson knew what he was getting involved in when he signed up for the position."

Silence spread across the room when neither responded. James finished removing the wraps from his hands and placed the cloths on the bench beside him. He flexed the muscles in his hands tenderly, drawing tight massaging motions in his palms and the back of his hands in intervals. The scars were less paramount than those she had seen on Mick, but the stub of his middle fingers was a disturbing sight. Despite Beth's curious stare, he shifted in the seat to retrieve a pair of cloth black fingerless gloves from his back jeans pocket. The fingers were just long enough to hide the stubs of his middle fingers while providing unhindered movement with the others.

"So, this is the best way to defuse stress? Beating the hell out of something?" Beth interrupted the silence with a soft pat to the punching bag for emphasis.

James slid the gloves over his hands expertly as he answered honestly, "Yes, actually, it is." He exhaled exaggeratedly at the admission and lowered his attention to his hands. The momentary traces of sadness slipped, as if he still longed for normalcy and the return of his previous life, and highlighted his next words of sincerity. "I don't remember the name _Surkov _from the days we were in captivity. After seeing her, though, I remember her face."

Beth pushed herself from her perch against the punching bag as he spoke, crossing her arms over her chest to narrow her eyes. She had been taking notes on everything James remembered on her computer, determined to find the smaller nuances most would have overlooked, and hadn't been secretive about her intentions.

Multiple accounts of a single trauma tended to leave the truth scattered. Over her career, Beth had seen victims of a heinous crime unintentionally give differing recounts of the trauma. It was expected, especially in torture victims, and the key was to find the common denominators.

In this instance, most of what they knew about the events in Iraq was taken from scarcely informative records and witness accounts. Mick and Cooper had differing descriptions of what Rais looked like, but the basics were still present. They were able to agree that Rais used others for his bidding in situations that would put his face into the limelight. However, he personally handled the torture in Iraq. He broke the molded profile for whatever reason, which allowed a certain amount of detail to be used against him by those involved.

James gave a new perspective to their previous assumptions of the torture. Mick, as mentioned in his notes, remembered a handful of nameless and faceless people. He recalled short sentences and taunting words as if they were relived through a dream, crudely drawn scenes that were too distorted to possibly be real, and seemingly inconsequential details pertaining to certain senses. James, however, could put a sketchy face to a minimum few. He could give a frightening insight into the torture with few words, one that Mick was never willing to do, and even describe what the cells looked like in extraordinary detail.

But he didn't place a name to Surkov's face until he saw her in Cooper's office, and he had yet to explain what her involvement with Rais was at the time of his captivity.

The Englishman drew a heavy breath to regain his nerves, subconsciously picking at a loose thread on his right glove, and lowered his tone cautiously. "She was there, with him, in one of the rooms I was dragged past. They were talking in another language I didn't recognize, arguing I think. She saw two of his men dragging me back to my cell and ordered them to stop. Rais questioned her but she just waved him away. Then she said something to the guards in the same language, and when I was returned to my cell, I was given water for the first time in two days. Normally it was one bottle of water every three days with a quarter loaf of moldy and stale bread. Whatever drugs they kept us on provided enough necessary nutrition to keep us alive. She, for whatever reason I can't even begin to fathom, showed us leniency."

_Leniency. _

Leniency from anyone in league with Rais was improbable. It was forbidden and drilled away with morality. Those he trained to become perfect soldiers, perfect _monsters_, were never allowed to portray leniency or morality. They were beaten into submission and brainwashed for his own demented purposes.

Therefore, Beth couldn't help but stare at James in utter bafflement.

Surkov became a contradiction to the fact that Rais chose his assassins for their lack of basic human morality. She had a flawless opportunity to kill Mick months ago, when he was on her escape vessel preparing to leave the country across the Bering Strait in Alaska, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. There were moments in the case when she could have easily put a bullet into one of them, and she chose to run with her protégé and her husband instead. In spite of the profiles, she did the exact opposite of what they assumed. She portrayed morality and leniency by not executing Beth and her teammates. That was most likely the main event that drove Rais to attempt an execution. She, in his eyes, became flawed.

Leniency portrayed almost eight years ago suggested that the morality had never been stripped out of her. Rais may have tried his hardest, and in some aspects succeeded in creating a viable assassin for his control, but he simply couldn't diminish her almost childlike perspective of the world.

"That was the only time?" Beth asked with a quick glare to the highlighted windows of Cooper's office. Cooper needed to know that Surkov had been in the bunker with James and his team during their captivity. Even if it was just one incident, and she was obviously no older than nineteen at the time, it was crucial to the case. It meant that she knew what the team endured and possibly even why Rais took control of the situation personally.

James gave a curt nod and ran a hand through his hair, a reaction to stress Beth had seen too many times in Mick, before he answered wearily. "She was younger then. Late teens, I suspect. She just stared at me for a few moments, like she was curious and apologetic and intrigued all at the same time. After that, I never saw her again. I don't know if she visited or even saw anyone else. If she did, I doubt they would remember it. Everyone else was given more of the drugs than I was. For whatever reason, he wanted to keep me lucid enough to still command my team when we were put together."

The drugs were never identified in detail. Reports from the doctors stated that the tests done were unspecific due to the team's fragile and compromised immune system. Two separate items were stolen from the camp infirmary the night they were taken, a heavy antibiotic and painkiller used primarily for the treatment of severed limbs or severely damaged and painful tissue, but it was never confirmed if they were used against the team. Rais, according to Cooper, stated that the drug used was a concoction of his own design. It whittled away the immune system, became addictive like the worst heroin, and compromised one's sense of reality. Ultimately, the supposed end result was death in every subject injected with the poison. The hallucinations were enough to destroy the subject's mind while the compromised immune system and physical torture stripped them of what little dignity and self control they had left.

Yet, all five men physically survived. Mentally, none of them ever truly escaped that hell in one piece.

Beth was on the verge of more questions when the sound of boots against the stairs leading to the second floor offices drew her attention. She turned to find Prophet bounding down the steps, skipping every other wooden plank eagerly, and grinned at the sight of a squirming Nikola clung tightly to his chest.

The furry black and gray kitten used claws and teeth against him, wiggling his small body in much larger hands fruitlessly, squeaking with every step to voice his disapproval at the older man's bouncing steps. Prophet readjusted his grip, mumbling something to the kitten, and crossed the distance between them in a few long strides. Although the day had been stressful, and he obviously wasn't pleased with Cooper's decision to provide Surkov with assistance, he was able to disguise the anxiety with a typical affectionate smirk towards Nikola.

"Cooper's calling it a night." He stated as soon as he came to a stop. A curious glint flickered to his eyes as he looked between Beth and James. He settled with a quick nod to the offices behind him and held Nikola outwards to push him into Beth's arms. "Sabrina should be down any minute. I'll give you two a lift to your hotel. And you'll need to be dropped off at your apartment building, right?" Beth struggled to maintain a solid grip on Nikola, and had no other choice but to place him on the floor or risk dropping him. Prophet nudged the kitten in the rear with the toe of his boot, watching in amusement as Nikola spun around and latched onto the laces. "He's going home with you tonight. I'll take him tomorrow night."

"I didn't agree to that." Beth argued with her hands on her hips. In reality, she was relieved that Cooper conceded to rest for the night. Midnight was drawing closer with the minutes and Beth silently longed for a few hours of sleep in her own bed. The day had been hectic from start to finish. A decent night of sleep, or as much as they possibly could with the details of the day still buzzing through their heads, was the best option for the case.

"I know, but I already cleared it with Gina. She reiterated that if something happens to him in our care, she'll tell Mick. And you know how relentless and impractical he can be when it comes to revenge." Prophet retorted.

Beth couldn't argue the point any further. Unfortunately Mick did have a tendency to act zealously in the heat of revenge. Towards his teammates, it was never something as dangerous or hateful as what he portrayed towards anyone that crossed him or threatened someone he cared for. However, it often resulted in immature pranks or creative uses for super glue. Beth was not fond of either, to be honest.

She exhaled loudly in defeat and turned her attention towards Cooper's closed office door. "What about Surkov? We can't smuggle her out of the building. You may have taken Carson and Adeline out of the equation for a short time, but the others are still holding surveillance on the building and everyone else who steps in and out."

Despite Prophet's earlier escapade against Carson and Adeline, which had successfully drawn the attention of the local police as planned, there were still three other CIA operatives stationed within the vicinity of the building. One of which had been a plant in an Alaskan police department months before, and Beth knew he was probably still livid that the case he had devoted himself to was destroyed when everything involving Surkov detonated in their faces.

Cooper had security cameras and motion sensors installed months ago. A series of live video feeds were linked to Cooper's laptop computer. Every lock had been changed, windows grilled, and alarm enhanced with a much louder and more intimidating siren. Without the proper security card and pin number for the security system set at the entrances, which were alternated every two days with a new eight digit code, no one could step one foot into the building. He took no chances after the massacre months before.

Beth didn't _feel _safe, though.

Surkov was one of the most important members of Rais' organization. Because of that, Beth knew her value to those who wanted to silence her or use her for intelligence against Rais would have put her in a state of never ending danger. Surkov held more answers to the organization than anyone else Beth and the rest of her teammates would probably ever talk with. That is, without some kind of miracle such as Rais' actual second hand.

The CIA, Interpol, MI6, and half a dozen other agencies across the world wanted her for answers. Rais needed to dispose of her before she compromised his organization. Both scenarios placed Cooper and the rest of his team in the middle, and no amount of security and diligence was going to change that.

Prophet obviously came to the same conclusion. He looked towards the closed office and shook his head disapprovingly. "She's staying here with Flores and Cooper. Cooper is going to make a bed out of mats and blankets in the basement and hide her there. There's less windows and only one exit. It'll keep her safe until we can transport her to Flores's home in Forest Hills." He didn't sound convinced that it was the best course of action, and both James and Beth could read the disdain in his features.

"That does not sound like the best plan." James commented attentively, rising from the bench as Cooper's office door finally opened. Sabrina exited first, locking eyes with her husband as a reassuring smile crept onto her features. The Englishman visibly relaxed and continued, "But I trust Cooper, and if he says that assisting Surkov will provide enough leverage to finally get somewhere with this bloody case, I can't bring myself to argue."

Unfortunately, as much as Beth wouldn't admit it aloud, even Sam Cooper could be mistaken sometimes.

* * *

Note- Hello people! Wow, it's been too long since I've posted anything. Life has kept me horribly busy, so I apologize for my tardiness. Just a quick note this time because everything is pretty straight-forward.  
The first half was expanding the profile for Rais and Surkov. It was necessary for the development of the storyline involving Surkov. I wanted to show that even though she worked for Rais since her youth and she's one hell of an assassin, Rais could never truly beat every ounce of innocence out of her. The second half deals more with James. I haven't done much with him in previous chapters, so I thought this was a good opportunity. You kind of get the sense that Rais kept him lucid enough during the days of captivity to remember quite a bit of detail. Whether that was actually Rais using some kind of sick minded manipulation, or Surkov interfering because she was young, I can't say yet. Also, keeping Surkov in the building is extremely dangerous. It will have repercussions when Fickler finds out, as well as if and when Jonah finds Surkov.  
I don't want to spoil anything else. So, you know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. Thanks to everyone who has stayed with my stories. Even throughout the delays in posting, you have waited with more patience than I personally have and I can't thank you enough for your encouragement. Hope everyone had a happy Christmas. The new year is coming, and I hope everything is well for everyone.


	16. Campaign Of Distraction

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 16 Campaign Of Distraction

Sniper rifles have replaced bows and arrows in modern warfare. They're a centuries old tool, the concept of any types of bows and arrows used for hunting or defense, that hasn't been a functional defensive or offensive tactic in most armies for better than a century. That is not to say they're incompetent by comparison to a mechanical rifle. In actuality, classic bows and arrows in talented hands are stealthier. Rifles could be heard, even if minutely, whereas bows tended to be almost silent. However, the worst drawback was proximity. Sniper rifles could be taken to a perch of over a mile away and the shot could be perfectly accurate if the shooter was naturally skilled as well as equipped with the appropriate scope. Bows and arrows required less distance and more stealth for both the shooter and the weapon.

The bottom line was that using a bow and arrow for any other purpose than hunting or professional sport is simply not a common occurrence in modern society. It is a dying skill, as Mick has stated, and most people wouldn't even know how to hold a bow properly, let alone fire an arrow. Media has exaggerated the idea of bows and arrows when in actuality, it takes just as much skill and practice to fire safely as it does to fire a gun.

Archery was never a skill I considered valuable. It had purpose and relevance throughout history, true, but it honestly never seemed like an entertaining objective for me. The only reason I knew so much about them was that I had to. Profiling snipers was a subject taught at the FBI academy that went to good use, and the profile for an archer does not stray very far.

The distance between the shooter and the victim, as well as the pristine custom carbon arrow and its final resting place against a sandcastle Mick had so kindly made for me, suggested symbolism. There was a message to be delivered by the shooter and he was challenging someone to understand it. That amount of coyness and cleverness implied a severely high IQ. He disappeared from the scene without a single trace of evidence, and almost forty minutes of searching the immediate area for clues proved futile. Apparently, he was trained in evasion by the best, because no one on the pier or beach had seen a man with a compound bow of any form leave the area. The use of arrows spoke of skill and dexterity, and a lack of courage to face the victim personally. A lack of emotional recognition was also very plausible. Victims were not people and the arrows sent were as if he were playing the role of a God. He had power while we didn't and that screamed of a sizable ego.

It would have been absurd not to assume the shooter was Lucas Baines. Obviously he was in Florida with Mick and I, although we didn't know what his intentions were or where his alliances stood, and if Mick's compiled details pertaining to his theories that Lucas Baines has been working for Rais since he was a teenager were correct, he was playing a very deadly game of cat and mouse. There was not going to be any DNA evidence on the arrow left for us, I was sure of that, and Lucas wouldn't have been so reckless as to use his bare hands on the arrow when loading it. The arrow wasn't a piece of forensic evidence sent to point us in the right direction, such as Lucas Baines' severed middle finger or the charred wing of Mick's lost childhood sown dragon, but a warning of some sort.

Either he knew we were digging into Rais and therefore him further and had found his identity, which prompted him to send a rather blatant warning to stay away, or he was playing two sides of the same coin and we had yet to understand what the other intention was. Whichever scenario may have been accurate, it still meant that a psychopath had his attention focused on Mick and I while we were left two steps behind.

That was not in my definition for an impromptu vacation with family.

Mick and I needed a plan to deal with the outcome of Lucas's belligerence. If his methods advanced from simple stalking for the sake of surveillance, to full-fledged warnings that could have easily killed someone, we had to develop a counter plan. Vigilance was necessary for survival, and I did not realize that Mick already established that need until I held the arrow in my hand and the realization of the situation figuratively slapped me in the face.

We settled for debriefing Cooper and the rest of our teammates as soon as we could pull ourselves from the prying eyes of the LaSalle family. Mick was not thrilled by the idea - I was sure the only reason he agreed was because he would do anything I asked without too much second thought - and the majority of our journey walking back to the beach house was spent discussing alternative options. Unfortunately, there were no viable alternatives.

Everything about the Rais case was strictly classified. We couldn't go to the local FBI field office for assistance in protecting my family, we couldn't allow the public to know that a psychopathic assassin was loose in the city of Jacksonville with a bow and arrows and no one knew his agenda, and we sure as hell couldn't tell my family. The CIA operatives once trailing us in DC had not been seen in Florida yet, and I had no desire to lead them to us by announcing our findings to the world. Cooper and the rest of our team were the only ones I trusted with the information. Rais supposedly had people scattered across the world in almost every country. Who's to say he did not have another desperate and grieving FBI agent in his pocket or a CIA operative secretly at his disposal?

The risks were too great. I certainly couldn't bring my family into the chaos either.

Disguising a three-foot carbon arrow, stunningly glistening black with deep blood red stripes that mimicked the ragged custom feathers drawn along the end and a rather large crimson black tip sharp enough to slice through skin with the slightest of touches, from a house of normally observant people was another challenge entirely.

Mick, after some fruitless debating, decided it was best to hide it in his bag for the time being. The feathered end poked out of the tattered tan opening by roughly over a foot and was clearly visible to anyone with eyes. I didn't feel comfortable with the serrated tip shoved to the bottom, or the way he stabbed the bag over his neck and shoulder as if it were perfectly safe. One wrong step, one trip on the shell littered beach or unfortunate slip of his sandy sandals, could have sent the tip through the weathered fabric of his bag and straight into his leg or foot.

"I'll be fine, darlin'. Let's just get you back to the safety of the house, yeah?" He dismissed my vocalized worries with a tight reassuring squeeze of my shoulder, which he had draped an arm around when he seemed to notice my unease, and quickened his pace as the distant moonlit silhouette of the family beach home came into view. Despite his previous actions and his ever-present need to remain alert, he seemed oddly calm in my presence. Every few minutes I could catch his gaze scaling the beach in search of possible dangers, or drifting towards the beautifully rhythmic rolling sea with a glint of longing in dark chocolate colored eyes, but it faded back into the usual mask of caution and flirting remarks just as quickly.

There was an argument on the tip of my tongue. He was not going to be _fine _if Lucas Baines took his schemes to a more deadly advancement. None of us could possibly be safe if he truly was sent by Rais to ensure our silence into the case. There was no evidence of such a motive, however, which didn't necessarily mean anything in the realm of positive thinking. Profiling is not an exact science and the few loopholes in our profile for Rais and Lucas as of yet was not inspiring towards our skills.

Rather than voice my disdain or fears for the umpteenth time, I simply heaved a defeated sigh and sank into Mick's grasp. To be quite honest, the gesture was subconscious. The arrow Lucas Baines shot at us could have very well killed us if that was ever his intention. Strangely enough, I was still a bit shaken by the entire experience. With the day's events, the sudden information Mick had been hiding for months and family issues such as my father's confession to his slow foreseeable death due to a cancerous brain tumor, Mick's comforting arm around my shoulders felt as though he was alleviating some of the burden.

Thankfully, the beach was verging on vacant at half past eleven. Most were already headed to their own homes for the night. Few were still enjoying the bright constellations above with their respected other or collecting last minute shells being washed ashore by the high tide. No one bothered with any attention towards Mick or I and both of us were silently grateful.

We approached the LaSalle beach home from the back patio entrance. The ramp leading to the beach was linked to the concrete with a locked gate on the far left side, a large wooden raised flowerbed masking it from view of those who sat in the adjacent furniture, and the gate itself had not been locked yet. Almost every light in the home was still active, if the glow from shaded and curtained windows was any indication, so I knew most of my family had not turned to their beds for the night.

That was unfortunate because the likelihood of sneaking the arrow poking out of Mick's bag past curious eyes was dashed with the brief sight of Leo and Helen in the kitchen through the sliding glass door.

Mick stopped in mid-stride at the sight, cocking his head to the side minutely and scrunching his features in obvious dispirit, and shifted his hold on the bag wrapped around his neck. His arm disappeared from my shoulder as the bag was brought in front of him. I sidestepped to place myself between the sliding door and the Welshman in hopes to discourage Helen or Leo from seeing the arrow. Mick drew the arrow from his bag carefully, working the end out with a slight twist of his fingers, and shoved the shaft into my hand with a hushed order to hold it for a moment. I was not given time to study the enticing contrast of the smoothly polished black shaft and the ragged painted blood red stripes. Nor could I fathom why the steel arrow tip appeared to have been painted as well.

"Can you provide a distraction?" Mick questioned hastily as he tugged his beach towel from his bag. He snatched the arrow from my hands without warning and began to wrap it in the towel. Dark chocolate colored eyes fixated on his actions as he waited impatiently for my response.

I found myself alternating between watching Mick with attentive fascination as he secured the arrow in the towel, and glancing cautiously towards Helen and Leo just beyond the glass door.

Years had passed since I last saw or spoke with Leo. He took after his father with his lanky posture and restlessness in sea green eyes, as if something was always bothering him in some fashion but he did not have the courage to speak of it. The last time I saw him, he had dyed his normally messy dark dirty blond hair with streaks of black and vibrant neon green just to want his mother restrain from dragging him into the bathroom and forcing him to wash it away. He was a rebellious and somewhat mentally disturbed teenager, and the fact that he was almost eighteen didn't seem to impede his decisions. The black and blood red strips of dyed hair certainly proved that. His clothing choices were unchanged by his age as well. The night attire of black shorts and a gory graphic skull and bones tee shirt suggested he hadn't matured very far in the past few years.

Helen, dressed in a set of sea blue cotton pajamas with matching robe and slippers, was perched on a stool opposite her son on the kitchen island. A familiar red first aid kit was opened atop the counter beside her and a pair of latex gloves stretched against her hands gave insight to what she was doing with Leo's left palm. The wad of bloody paper towels on the counter and the open bottle of anti-burn cream were telling enough with Leo's past record.

"Gina, darling, I need to sneak this past them without too many questions. Unless you think it would be safe to climb through a second story window…" Mick stole my attention once more with his ridiculous and potentially deadly antics, and I choked back a chuckle to interrupt.

"Right, because you _wouldn't_ fall on your ass." The sarcasm brought a grin to his features as he opened his mouth to counter, but I took the arrow from him and stuffed it into his bag as I continued. "You and Leo are sharing a room just like Ariel and I. He's going to get curious when he sees that, and he has been known to snoop into another person's belongings when curious. Our best bet is to not try to hide it. We'll just say that we found it on the beach. No other questions needed because we don't know the answers."

Mick raised an eyebrow doubtfully, catching my gaze with his own look of disbelief. He was probably the best liar I had ever seen, so I knew he could talk his way out of the questions Helen and Leo would pose better than I ever could. "And they'll fall for that?"

"Of course not. Perceptiveness runs in the genetics, I guess. But it's better than admitting that someone shot at us. You thought my father was being overprotective because he assumed we were in some kind of relationship that wasn't necessarily good for me. Just wait until he hears that someone could have very well killed us."

Mick gave the idea a moment of pause, mulling it silently, before nodding curtly and shifting his bag to rest against his side once again. "Ladies first." He stepped around me to slide the glass door open, giving a twist of his hand towards the open doorway in a polite and ancient display of courtesy. It was a flirting gesture if I had ever seen one, which wasn't abnormal in the slightest, and Mick succeeded in bringing a smile to my face momentarily.

Helen applied a final bandage to Leo's palm as Mick shut the door behind him and looked towards us with a pleasantly surprised expression. Leo followed her eyes but didn't portray the same amount of welcome. Instead, he ignored me completely and studied Mick with large distrustful eyes. "It's about time you two came back. Your father was going to lead a search party if you weren't back by midnight." Helen stated as she began to gather the materials spread across the counter into the first aid box.

"You're that Brit that's been secretly banging my cousin?" Leo asked with a surprising amount of carelessness and apathy. Helen gasped in front of him, giving her youngest son the equivalent of a death glare, and hissed his name in evident warning. Leo ignored her completely and continued to watch Mick flinch at the accusation.

"It's _Welsh_, ya bloody twit. Has no one ever heard of Wales before? Really?" Mick began to defend himself angrily.

I winced at Leo's implications, fighting the sudden urge to argue and agree with Mick's defensive rant, but couldn't find the words. Leo was wrong, of course, and everyone else in the house knew by now that Mick and I had a very professional yet complicated relationship. There was no simple explanation for it, or any singular definition to describe it. Rather than give Leo any more room to continue his immaturity, I interrupted Mick with a hateful glare of my own. "You know, it's times like these when you should pay more attention in world history classes and less attention in coloring your arms with permanent markers."

The faint traces of colorful fading ink trailing the length of both arms, hardly disguised by the short sleeves of his tee shirt, provided justifiable evidence for the response. They were impressive designs, really, and it made sense that he would do such a thing considering his previous favoritism towards graffiti. He had a talent with unconventional art and no one could deny that. Unfortunately, his attitude stood in his way of becoming someone great.

Leo knitted his brow as his eyes swept to the fading ink tattoos, opening his mouth to argue as his mother intervened sharply. "That's enough, Leo. Apologize, now." The fierceness in her eyes was intimidating for all others in the room, but Leo did no more than shrug and mumble an apology. He checked the bandage wrapped around his hand for a short moment, then jumped off the stool and waved a nonchalant hand over his shoulder as he left the room.

Helen kept her eyes narrowed until he was out of sight, restraining herself from scolding him, and exhaled exasperatedly as I took Leo's seat and dragged a second stool beside me for Mick. She stared at the towel-covered arrow curiously, as Mick set the bag on the floor beside him. "I apologize for my son's behavior. He's just a bit…"

"Cruel? Strange? Apathetic? Deranged?" I finished, folding my forearms on the counter-top.

Helen hesitated for a response, seeing as Leo was still her son and despite his attitude, she still loved him, and finally shrugged dejectedly. "Socially awkward. He means well, really…"

"There's a difference between being socially awkward and psychopathic." Mick interjected, grabbing the last role of medical tape from the table to help her finish packing the first aid box. "It's a work in progress, eh?"

He, of all people, could understand what Leo was mentally going through. From what Cooper and Jenna had insinuated over the past few years, Mick had been a defiant and rambunctious teenager once. He had a good heart, but very little social skills to communicate properly with those around him. That led to frustration and a feeling of becoming an outcast, which led more towards rebellion and seclusion. Leo may not have had a traumatizing life such as Mick had, but something in his mind registered himself as a social recluse just as Mick had. Perhaps that could be used to find some kind of common ground between the two.

"It has been for the past sixteen years." Helen confided in a hushed tone, snapping the box shut roughly. The reference was lost on Mick, but not on me.

Sixteen years ago, almost two year old Leo witnessed his three-year-old sister burn to death in an accidental propane fire. Helen and her husband were cooking on the grill outside one summer afternoon and they didn't know that the cheap propane tank was defective. They stepped away for two minutes, the children were playing in the back yard, and they came back to the sound of the propane tank exploding violently. Her daughter must have smelled something wrong with it and ventured towards it out of curiosity, because she was too close to the blast when it exploded. She died within minutes of Helen and her husband trying to stop the consuming flames.

Leo was never the same after that accident.

"He was playing with a lighter again, wasn't he?" I attempted to divert the subject, regardless of Mick's obvious desire for an explanation, and looked pointedly to the bottle of burn cream Helen did not place in the first aid kit.

"Matches this time." Helen answered with a look of disapproval. "He said that his hand slipped and it was an accident." She obviously did not believe that in any aspect. Rather than continue the line of conversation that made her uneasy, she turned her attention to Mick and asked, "So, where have you been for the past few hours. You missed dinner."

"I'm sure dinner was wonderful, but I had to take care of something important. Apologies for my absence." Mick answered smoothly, his accent thickening just enough to be sincere and elegant.

Most women would melt over his accent. Helen, however, forced a smile in acceptance and replied, "Something involving that thing in your bag, I presume? Why else would you try to hide it in a beach towel?"

Mick glanced at me with a nervous glint to his eyes, as if urging me to respond, before dropping his hand to the tip of the covered arrow beside his leg. Reluctance was depicted with a long pregnant pause, long enough to reconsider the necessity of our lie towards family. Mick conceded when I did not respond to his silent pleading and I watched in fascination as the typical mask of confidence required for a believable lie became evident. His posture shifted from exhausted and curious to relentless and impassive. Anyone else that had not known Mick for such an extended period as I had would not have recognized the change. "We found it on the beach. It's a piece of driftwood that I plan to whittle into something."

The lie was seamless, vague yet unquestionable, but Helen clearly saw something beneath it. She cocked her head to the side minutely and furrowed her brow, calculating and unsure for a moment, and then she leaned back on the stool with her hands still spread on the counter-top and gave a dismissive nod. "Well, don't stay up too late with it. Both of you have to get fitted for your wedding attire tomorrow afternoon."

_Wedding attire_ was a contemporary metaphor for an impressive three-piece suit for Mick and an elegant dress for myself. Personally, I was not eager for the hours I would inevitably spend with Ariel and who knew whom else in a pricy and uncomfortable dress shop. People tended to be pushy and opinionated about what should be worn with what and it honestly annoyed me to no end. However, I would admit that seeing Mick in a three-piece suit again would have been worth the stress. Thankfully, the situation was nothing like the funeral he attended last year, when he had worn a rather dashing charcoal gray and black suit at Cassie O'Connell's funeral.

I was moments from voicing my disdain when the muffled rhythmic buzz of Mick's cell phone interrupted from its confines in his bag. Fighting back the sudden urge to bury my face in my hands at Helen's seemingly innocent implications with the simple words of _'your wedding attire'_, I slid off the stool and crouched before the tattered bag with little more than a quick huff of annoyance. Mick reached for the phone just as I retrieved it, a smirk ghosting his features, but I smacked his hand away lightly and hovered a finger against the button to answer. "It's Prophet. I'll handle this if you go get cleaned up for the night."

A muted order fell between the words and Mick showed no arguments about it. He rose to his feet with a relieved smile in my direction and snatched the straps of his bag into a balled fist. The covered arrow wavered slightly, the tip threatening to expose itself. Sand clung to his clothing in a thin layer, making his steps slippery with the soles of his sandals against the polished flooring, and a shower was needed before he could rest for the night. He politely excused himself from the room, sliding his sandals off his feet and looping his fingers around the open straps so he wouldn't slip on the stairs, and left before Helen could question him.

I used to curse the timeliness of my teammates. Someone _always _found a way to interrupt a conversation or important moment, even without realizing it. But at that moment, when Helen desired more of an explanation as to where Mick and I had been for the past few hours and why we were abnormally close for a _not _couple, I could have paid them the world for a distraction.

* * *

Leo Clark was a rowdy, zealously arrogant, obnoxious, pathological, psychopathic teenager. He preferred blood, gore, and violence to peace and prosperity. Ridiculously loud and expressively disturbing thrash metal music that coincided with his love for all things dark and gothic. The inability to express himself before people naturally and without difficulty made him socially awkward. A severe lack of empathy drove people to keep him at arms length because he was not safe or trusted. Lastly, his love for fire and arson was undoubtedly going to lead him to a prison cell before he turned twenty-five if he was not careful.

In short, Leo Clark was a mentally disturbed man that no one in the LaSalle family trusted.

Yet, despite his problems with authority and attitude, he somehow found a healthy outlet. It wasn't with the use of art as I suspected. He was talented with a pen and no one could deny it. No, it was with an acoustic _guitar _of all things. Where he got it or who taught him to play, I didn't know. I did know, after a brief mention from Ariel before I drifted into a restless slumber for the night, that Leo had been forced into sessions with a professional psychologist for the past year after he was caught burning a squirrel alive behind his school. Any professional would have prescribed something to stave away depression as well as something to hamper his violent tendencies. They also would have tried to find a better outlet for his repressed anger and his inability to communicate with others. The guitar, as far as I could tell, was a perfect alternative.

The fact that he could play an acoustic guitar with such commitment and symbolism, scratchy and untamed skill that made every note strung raw like the deepest verbal portrayal of an unhealed wound, had been kept from the majority of everyone in the house. It was not a skill Leo wanted to boast about for whatever reason. Every other skill he had was put on display proudly, but his use of the guitar was something he desired to keep a secret from everyone. The only people who knew had to be his parents and siblings, and now Mick and me.

Neither Mick nor I could sleep more than a few restless hours. The typical sequence of frighteningly realistic nightmares kept a constant loop of starting but never finishing. Each one was horrifically different from the previous, three separate occasions of watching Mick or someone else I cared for being impaled by that damned arrow hidden safely in one of the clothing suitcases Mick carried from DC.

By the time four twenty in the morning came, I begrudgingly abandoned the preconceived notion of rest. That had become an unwelcome habit over the past few months. One of which I was admittedly not fond of but accustomed to nonetheless. Dressed in a set of deep purple pajamas with matching cozy socks, hair disheveled from the constant tossing and turning in bed, I disappeared from the room Ariel and I shared rather stealthily. I was impressed with myself seeing as Ariel didn't even twitch when the door creaked upon opening.

The previous comforts after a nightmare could not be obtained in this instance. Mick had left his DVD box sets of _Doctor Who _at our apartment in DC. My grandmother Gabrielle probably bought a box of tea for herself and I was sure she wouldn't have minded if Mick and I took two pouches, but it wasn't going to be anything like the English tea Jenna sent Mick every few months. Normally we could sleep on the couch, wrapped in blankets that seemed to appear sometime shortly after I drifted to sleep, and the comfort of Mick's presence was irreplaceable. But the couch was already occupied with a sleeping figure I couldn't distinguish through the impeding darkness.

I stumbled through the kitchen until I found the sink. Somehow, oddly enough considering my father and uncle's past to always know when something was happening in his house, the clatter of a stool leg against my foot and the muttered curses didn't draw the attention of anyone. Finding the correct cupboard for the glasses was challenging, moreover than actually using the kitchen sink faucet to fill the glass with nuke warm water. I sipped the bland water for a long moment, relishing in the reality that I had been dreaming and the glass in hand was proof.

After several more attentive minutes of contemplation and staring through the shadows darkness and moonlight traipsed through the kitchen, I set the glass on the counter-top as quietly as possible and decided that a bit of fresh air was needed. My father had made a point to activate the house alarm system once he was sure everyone was in bed hours ago. Everyone in the house, including Mick, was told the sequence of numbers required to deactivate it. However, I did not expect anyone to venture outside the house once my father set the alarm. Uncle Clyde smoked roughly half a package of cigarettes a day, but rarely ever after nightfall unless his PTSD got the better of him. Helen's husband as well as her oldest son, Jared and Shane, also smoked cigarettes. They had to be coy about it though because Helen was never happy when she saw them with a lighter in hand.

Naturally, I was curious as to who deactivated the alarm system. I stared at the panel beside the shaded sliding glass doors, chewing my bottom lip, but didn't _feel _as if there was any danger. Instinct was a powerful and useful tool in my line of work. Most cases required it. If there were any danger caused by the sudden change, the pressing intuitive response leaving goose bumps against my skin and the hair on the back of my neck on end would have alerted me.

Lucas Baines was still a threat, and I would have been reckless to dismiss that, but I was certain Lucas Baines was not responsible for the alarm.

A draft sliding through the nearest glass-plated door drew my attention. Upon further inspection, I realized that the door had been left ajar for a reason. Someone was sitting on the patio, stretched lengthwise on the only padded wicker bench that didn't honestly match the other furniture, socked feet dangling over the edge while a pillow supported his head and a blanket fended away the crisp spring night breeze. He was motionless but I doubted truly asleep. The faint relaxing strum of an acoustic guitar in the distance made me strain my ears in hopes to discern the origins. It was an enticing sound that I had never heard before, raw and sincere yet vague enough to lull anyone into a blissful sleep, and the curiosity as to who was responsible for such an amazingly simplistic sound lured me outside the house and onto the patio.

It should not have been a surprise to find Mick spread on the bench, staring at the dimmed shimmering constellations above in complete silence, motionless save for the calm rhythmic rise and fall of his tattered nightshirt covered chest. Sleep was a constant struggle due to the night terrors that plagued him. Flores had prescribed and given him a bottle of sleeping pills that were supposed to help with the insomnia months ago. While he purposefully did not pack them in his luggage bags, I had smuggled them into my own bathroom bag with hopes to finally convince him that they were necessary. Insomnia wasn't normally dangerous, but it was certainly unhealthy given the severity.

The guitarist was perched on a roof somewhere nearby. I couldn't see him, but the captivating guitar tune was slightly louder and more pronounced. There were no words to the lullaby, no lulling contrasting tone but the distant crash of sea waves against the sands, so I knew it wasn't an automated recording on some kind. Someone was actually playing the guitar on the roof, and I didn't know who until Mick sat up on the bench with a faint wince and swung his legs over the edge.

He patted the open seat next to him in welcoming and untwisted his legs from the blanket. I studied him in the pale overcast moonlight, noting the sleeplessness on his features and the messy state of his hair, before turning my eyes to the blanket he bundled aside. Both the pillow and the blanket were clearly from the bed he was supposed to be sleeping in. Clearly, another night terror disrupted sleep and he ventured outside to force himself back to reality.

I sank onto the cushion beside Mick with an appreciative smile. It felt familiar, curling myself against his side as he spread the blanket over both of our legs, pressing my head against his shoulder as his adjoining arm snaked behind my neck and rested on the top of the bench. For both parties involved, the strange sense of_ intimacy_ and familiarity was comforting. Anyone else would take the action out of context, which was duly justifiable, really, and I didn't necessarily blame them. The intimacy did implicate a much more physical relationship than what was actually true. But despite the obviousness and unspoken confessions, I stubbornly believed that the gesture was simply innocent in nature.

Mick was a gentleman at heart. He would never try anything unless it was my idea first.

Mick ended the silence between us with a soft whisper, barely loud enough to pierce through the collective tune of the guitar and distant sea, "Nightmare again, darlin?" His accent was thick and lazy, sleep lingering beneath the surface, and I simply nodded in agreement. A sigh brushed my hair as he stretched his feet out in front of him and sank farther into the cushion, posture slack and relaxed as if he were minutes from drifting into a restful slumber. "Well, suppose that makes two of us. I have to say, I'm surprised with your cousin. Haven't heard guitar like that in ages." The smile ghosting his lips was genuine, serine and wonderful in every aspect, and I admittedly began to feel more at ease because of it. "April nineteenth, 2004. That was the last time I've ever heard a guitar sing like that. Leo's got a long ways to go before he can compete with Liam's standards, but he's getting there."

April nineteenth in 2004 was shortly before Rais took him and his teammates. Liam played his guitar every night since Mick was roughly nine years old. They had a system, a routine that proved necessary for both parties. Mick rarely ever slept without the guitar tunes in his ears and Liam was addicted to the guitar like the worst drugs in the world. For both, it was not a matter of connivance or comfort, but a necessity of life. That guitar and Liam's ability to play became the only thing they could understand as a family unit. It was a substantial piece of soul for all of them.

Considering how many years Mick had spent listening to and studying his brother's guitar, the compliment towards Leo held quite a bit of weight.

"I thought you didn't like him." I murmured, squinting through the darkened night in hopes to see Leo on the roof.

Mick glanced at me and shrugged with a yawn. "I don't. The kid has issues."

No one could deny that Leo was mentally missing a few threads of humanity and morality. Yet, for reasons unknown, I felt the sudden urge to defend him in the slightest of ways. "It's almost like looking in a mirror, isn't it?"

Mick pierced his lip, brow raised in surprise at my retort and the response hovering on his tongue. "Perhaps. Obviously I never chose fire as an outlet…"

I knew where the conversation was headed. He had told me quite a bit about his younger years in London throughout the past few months. Short snippets here and there, sometimes over dinner or whilst watching television, were enlightening. I learned that he was the misunderstood genius in school, bullied violently by those older and larger, severely abused by past foster parents until the O'Connell family saved him and his siblings, socially inept, and not nearly as flirtatious with women as he was when he grew older and joined the British Army. One particular mention came to mind above all else. He did have a rather disturbing outlet just as Leo did.

A handmade slingshot, or catapult as Mick called it, was often used to send river stones into birds and ducks over the Thames River. It was violent and expressive, emotionless and psychologically disturbing, and had he not joined the British Army as their leading sniper, he probably would have escalated to much more violent acts with the slingshot.

Really, he had no reason to judge Leo. Mick was the spitting image of the teenager when he was roughly his age.

My stern disbelieving glare must have been enough to warn Mick that I didn't fall for the excuses rolling off his tongue. He promptly ceased talking and began picking at a loose strand of wicker on the armrest of the bench, forcing a smirk in my direction. I pulled myself from him a few inches and readjusted the blanket as I whispered, "Hypocrisy doesn't suit you. I'll admit that Leo has some problems, but it seems like you two could find some common ground. Maybe you could give him a few pointers on how to better his skills with his guitar."

Mick gave another curious expression in my direction, shaking his head, as his smirk grew wider. "I know many things, darling, but playing the guitar is not one of them. Although, if you truly want me to, I'm sure I could figure it out."

That sparked a nerve in some fashion. His willingness to do anything I asked, his lack of questions or reluctance or blatant refusal towards the most ridiculous of requests, drove the wedge of curiosity deeper. Psychologically, I knew _why _he always had a difficult time refusing anything I said. I knew, but could not bring myself to admit, that he was more than just _smitten _by me. He didn't think of me as a close friend or teammate anymore, but as someone else entirely. Heaven knows I was not going to classify it as _love_ because I didn't even know what the hell that meant exactly.

I didn't know what the consequences could be.

"Why do you do that?" The whispered question escaped me before I could stop it. It was a question I already knew the answer to, but in my sleepless haze, I assumed I needed to verbally hear the response from Mick. He gaped at me for a long moment, straightening in his seat and fussing with the edge of the blanket to keep his focus distant from me. "You would really do anything I asked without question? Accompany me on a family reunion and wedding so I wouldn't feel so uncomfortable around all of my relatives? Even learn an instrument you haven't touched since your brother's suicide? You would do all of that…"

"Give you the stars in the sky or the universe at the tips of your fingers," He interrupted with a light shrug, sincerity dripping off every hushed word in a manner I had never heard before. "Of course I would."

"Why?"

He hesitated, dropping his eyes to the concrete patio flooring in thought, and finally settled for an honest nervous confession. "Because you're you, and I don't know what else to say."

There was nothing more he could say. If he were to continue with the confession, the consequences would be damning. Everything about our relationship would chance with three simple words. Our partnership, our friendship, whatever the hell _this _was, all of it would be flushed down the metaphorical toilet. I couldn't allow it. Nevertheless, I couldn't abandon the thought either.

"You don't have to say anything else." I responded quietly, shifting in the seat to return to the previous comfortable position against him, drawing the blanket tighter around my legs as I drew them up beside me. One of the key aspects of our relationship was the ability to always know what the other was thinking. We could read each other easily and that made keeping secrets difficult. Not impossible, especially if Mick really wanted to remain secretive, just challenging. Words weren't always necessary.

Sometimes what was undeclared spoke more than any words ever could.

* * *

Note- People! I'm back!  
The chapter is fairly self-explanatory so I won't bore you with my rambling. The arrow has a much more crucial purpose than what is obvious. As a hint, there is more to it than meets the eye. That will be revealed later and I can safely say that it has something to do with Leo. Leo is a very troubled teenager that has a lot of potential. I really wanted to give Mick a way to relate with him, and not just with the fact that Mick was troubled at that age too. His back-story has more detail to it that I have not added yet for a reason. The guitar has a purpose as well. It's a way for Mick to find common ground with him. Mick does not know how to play the guitar, and I do not intend for him to learn relatively soon either, but he spent much of his life watching and studying Liam, who was an avid guitarist. Understandably, a few traits were picked up along the way and Mick could use those to help Leo. Not because he wants to, mind you, but because Gina inadvertently asked him to. As I've already shown, Mick is willing to do anything for Gina, whether she asks or not.  
I think that covers everything for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far! The encouragement is truly wonderful. I know it's horribly late, but I hope everyone had a good holiday and New Years with friends and family.


	17. Priceless

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 17 Priceless

Sam Cooper chose his allies with great caution. Trust was earned, never given, and that applied to every person he ever came in contact with. It was necessary to give leniency from time to time, particularly if he wanted something in return, but people tended to be held at a distance until trust was established.

He conducted quite a bit of research on those he called _friends_. That could have been counted as an act of treason to the very concept of friendship and trust, he was well aware, and therefore discretion had to be taken into consideration. Extensive background searches were required by the FBI upon joining any team. Generic information, such as name and schooling history, were recorded for security purposes to weed away those who may have been a threat to national security. A psychological evaluation was mandatory to ensure the individual was mentally healthy. All records were handled by the leaders of the units and the FBI director. Because Cooper directed the best Red Cell team in the FBI, he was privy to quite a bit of details pertaining to who he would work with.

Individually, his teammates were flawed. Mick suffered from Post Traumatic Stress due to his troubled history. Prophet was weary of people in general after family and friends abandoned him once he was placed in jail for a justifiable revenge. Gina tended to be too skeptical of those around her, which placed her at an emotional distance from most useful relationships. Beth would rather spend time alone with case files than set foot in a crowd of people who could analyze her peculiar personality.

As a unit, they were inseparable.

Unofficially, Wendy Flores was the newest key member of their team. She went by the alias of a consultant on paper, as well as Mick's psychologist, and Fickler didn't question Cooper's motives when he insisted that she join them. Cooper needed her expertise in profiling and her impeccable skill for reading people. True, Cooper and Mick had done well together when it came to compiling data on Rais. Flores, however, had been a mentor of sorts to Cooper for years during his first decade in the FBI. She understood what others didn't, saw what some would dismiss or overlook entirely, and that made her an invaluable tool to their hunt against Rais.

Even Cooper couldn't deny that she was a force to be reckoned with. Honestly, he admired her for that mindset.

While Flores could read the nuances of people, lie with an impressive sense of control that could essentially con the world, and manipulate others to her bidding, she could never quite hide her fears and worries completely. There were hints when something devastating occurred in her personal life. A change in speech pattern so minute that it was barely recognizable, a twitch of the eyes when something drew the subject dangerously close to the surface, even a variance in tone very few would have questioned.

Cooper had known her long enough to see the subtle details. She rarely ever mentioned family or the pieces of her personal life. However, Cooper had compiled over the years of their friendship that she had family in Spain. They weren't close in any aspect. Her siblings resented her decision to immigrate to the United States as well as join the FBI. She was married when Cooper met her to a man who spent more time drunk in the name of _artistic inspiration _than with their son. When they divorced shortly before her son, Sebastian, turned fourteen, he filed for custody. It was denied by a judge given the past reputation of her husband, and Cooper knew that was the reason for her cautious behavior over the years. Her ex-husband had quite a nasty temper. Sebastian lived in Barcelona Spain with his fiancé. They planned to marry after their daughter was born in the coming few months.

Sebastian was only a brief mention at times.

Flores kept personal matters close to her chest for protection. She was often evasive when asked about family. But she did hold her son to a high standard, and she did speak lovingly about him. If she were in the presence of someone she trusted, someone she knew could do her no harm, she was rather open about the proud accomplishments of her son.

The fact that she was evasive towards Cooper, taking secretive phone calls spoken in her native tongue, arguing with someone bitterly, threatening the caller with venom that make Cooper too curious, suggested something terribly wrong with her son.

Cooper bided his time to confront Flores about the behavior for as long as he could justify. He perched himself in the worn doorway of the darkened basement, ears straining through the haze of eerie silence, and fought to translate the venomous string of threats dampened by the faint pipe noises. His arms folded across his chest, his flashlight clung to one hand and directed towards the cobwebbed ceiling carelessly, and an attentive posture portrayed skepticism more than the tight frown on dark features.

The basement had been the only safe location for Surkov for the night. Flores and Cooper constructed a warm bed on the chilled concrete floor out of emergency blankets, a throw pillow from his couch in his office, and a gym mat. It was placed to one side, away from the door but not out of sight, with a dozen small lit candles stationed on two adjacent metal shelves. The lighting was hardly bright enough to define the entirety of the basement. Shelves, boxes, pipes, gym equipment; Cooper knew the inventory. There was only one exit and entrance, and with either him or Flores alternating guard duty, Surkov was perfectly safe from any who wished to silence her.

Between the severity of blood loss and poison and infection induced fever, Cooper and Flores had no expectations for her to become lucid anytime soon.

Cooper had planned to relieve Flores of her guard duty for an hour. The lateness of night, or early morning depending on one's perspective, ailed both of them in the form of exhaustion. While Flores sat on a gym mat partially propped against a large open box of weights, he had been napping restlessly in the reclining chair in his office. The timer on his cell phone awoke him with a start, sending the journal he had been writing in to the floor with the pen rolling beneath one chair leg, and the position left him weary.

He scrubbed a heavy hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to shake himself awake, and released a deep sigh that seemed to echo through the basement.

"Sebastian, you have to do as they say. Do not fight them. Keep your head down and your mouth closed. I will settle matters. You will be home before the end of the week." Flores' words were verging on pleading. She was terrified, voice shaky and stern with determination, yet undeniably mortified for reasons Cooper had not understood. Her accent was slurred with emotion, thickly twisting her impatient words, and Cooper could almost visualize her fighting to withhold the inevitable tears. Flores may have been able to fool the world on a daily basis, but her son was the only subject that could bring true panic.

"I promise, and I am working on a way to bring you home. Just do not give them any reason. You still have a fiancé and daughter to return to. Do what they want and I promise they will not harm you. Yes, yes, I know… They have assured me that you will be fine so long as you do not cause trouble…" Her tone broke suddenly, far more urgent as she nearly shouted, "No! No! Sebastian! Don't you dare touch him!"

Whatever was spoken to her afterwards drew the conversation to an end. Flores was left standing in the back shadows of the basement, just out of sight, breathing heavily as a sob chocked her, barely loud enough to be audible to Cooper.

Cooper had seen plenty of distressed mothers over the years. It was an unfortunate casualty of his job. He had seen the way a mother would beg and cry when their child was taken by a serial killer or pedophile, pleading for the FBI to find their child before something horrendous happened to them, chocking on sobs and tears in front of people because they wanted to appear strong. They would have done anything to bring their children home, to ensure they were safe, and if given the choice, most would choose to comply with ransom demands rather than accept the aid of the FBI. It wasn't logical and rarely ever ended happily because it gave the unsub leverage. Leverage was the equivalent of signing the death certificate prematurely. Cooper didn't fault them for their desperation. Panic, in moments such as the kidnapping or loss of a child, demands desperate measures that didn't often include sensible logic.

At that moment, listening to Flores bite back panicked sobs of grief, Cooper came to the sudden realization behind her recent actions. Everything she did as of late, every slight change to her personality and daily routines was caused by grief and raw fear. Someone, somehow, had her son for ransom and she had been too afraid to tell anyone. She had been compromised, used by someone for their own nefarious purposes, and Cooper hadn't even _seen _the signs until that moment.

He hadn't realized that Rais was the most likely culprit until he heard her beg for her son. Flores would have already found a way to save Sebastian if it were anyone else that abducted him for leverage. Rais must have taken Sebastian to ensure his involvement into Cooper's team and the investigation, as well as to lure Flores into any deed or information he wanted.

The epiphany hung in his conscious like a weight. Sleep was pushed away in an instant, an array of emotions between anger and disbelief inches from the surface of being spoken. His heart seemed to skip a beat, his mouth agape in the darkness briefly, and a sense of self loathing for his insolence made him silently chastise himself for the longest of moments.

Before he could question Flores, a shift from Surkov's bed drew his gaze. He paused in mid-step, fully intent on confronting Flores for her obvious betrayal, and frowned heavily. The flashlight in hand scanned her covered body briskly, looking for signs of awareness, when the younger woman relieved a shaky sigh and attempted to twist her legs to remove the blanket covering her from the chest down.

The motion snapped her awake in an instant. Cooper recognized panic and excruciating pain in bright fevered eyes, the drawn sweat slicked features contorting as a single hand clasped onto the stitched gunshot wound in her side beneath the blanket, a breath inhaled but not released as if it hurt to simply breathe, and couldn't help but wince in minor sympathy. Recognition was a slow progression as she carefully observed the room with wide fearful eyes. Her hair was slicked back with sweat and the cool water Flores had been using to combat her fever. When her opposite hand moved towards her side, as if searching for a weapon, the handcuff around her wrist jingled mockingly. The bowl of room temperature water nearby was focused upon for a few seconds, as if she was calculating an escape with the metal and the old rag draped on one side.

Cooper hesitated momentarily, listening to Flores's approaching steps, and finally moved into the woman's view. The fever hadn't broken; the poison was still slowly killing her, which meant that she shouldn't have been conscious. She _should_ have been delirious and unresponsive. The fact that she was staring at him with bated breath, eyes wide as if they were going to fall out of their sockets, baffled Cooper into speechlessness.

Flores appeared by his side quickly. Her mouth formed a thin line, her eyes damp and her face taunt as if she had hurriedly wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt. Something akin to rage flickered upon her features, her posture rigid as seething eyes fixated on the Russian woman.

Surkov shrank away from them fearfully, or as best she could, and gathered her voice in a painful gasp.

Cooper saw Flores's stance change, a half step forward and the clench of her fists, and intervened before she could strike. "It's alright." He stated forcefully. To which of the two women he was referring to most, he didn't know. He captured Flores's gaze sternly, silently ordering her to hold her tongue and wait, and then turned to Surkov. "You came to me for help. Do you remember?"

Surkov furrowed her brow, maintaining a skeptical glare towards Flores, as she nodded her head against the pillow carefully. Her tone was too low, too pained, in the cadence around them as she spoke in weary Russian. Lucidity wasn't going to last long, and her eyes had already begun to slide back to an unfocused glint with the passing seconds. "How am I not dead?"

"It's only been a few hours since I found you. That gunshot wound is severely infected and we suspect your partner, who I have a feeling goes by the name of Lucas, poisoned you. We've done everything we can to help counter the infection and poison. Unfortunately we have no way to cure you without a real doctor." He paused briefly, looking towards Flores cautiously. "Can you tell us anything useful about Lucas, Rais, or Jonah?" Cooper responded in English, though he had translated the Russian words easily enough. It was a ridiculous request, he knew, but he reasoned that Surkov came to him for a reason.

She wanted help, and was willing to give information in exchange for protection against Rais. There was no place else for her to hide. Hospitals were required to call the authorities for gunshot victims. Anywhere else would have led Jonah to her within the length of a day. Cooper was the only viable option, and he knew it was not an option she volunteered for.

Surkov pierced her lip to stop herself from crying aloud when she shifted beneath the blanket. The handcuff rattled once more after an attentive tug, and she grimaced at the sound before answering, "Rais sent Jonah. Lucas promised to help…"

"Yes, we know that." Flores interrupted sharply, tone frustrated and eager. "We know Rais sent a fellow assassin to silence you and Lucas Baines. Both of you tried to run from his organization for reasons we have yet to uncover. You were ambushed and injured by Jonah and his men days ago. Lucas went to Florida with Agents Rawson and LaSalle, and you stayed behind to distract us. He betrayed you by poisoning the gunshot wound. You were manipulated to come to us for assistance." The older woman stopped abruptly, pushing herself past Cooper's calm outstretched hands to loom over Surkov. At any moment, Cooper was sure she would leap on the other woman and beat the information out of her. The thought was dismissed, however, when she simply placed her hands on her hips and continued menacingly. "I do not give a damn about that now. I want to know where Rais hides himself. I _need _to know everything about the man. Especially where he hides his victims between their _assignments_."

Cooper grasped her forearm in warning, drawing her back and away from Surkov before the situation could escalate. He cast a single look to Surkov, witnessing the pure confusion on sickly pale features, and sighed to control his nerves. "Wendy, we have to play this smart…"

Flores yanked her arm out of his grip and twisted to face him. Desperation and rage fueled her as her hands shoved him back by the center of his chest, the force of which shocked Cooper more than he cared to admit aloud. She waited a fractured second until she heard his back against the nearest shelf to jab a finger in his face warningly. "This is _smart_, Sam? _Waiting_ for the damned answers in front of us? Trusting a monster such as _her_?" A hateful nod towards Surkov illustrated her point. "I am done playing games with Rais. We have his beloved daughter with priceless information that could potentially cripple everything he has ever built in life. Those bastards have my son…"

"And we'll get him back, safe and sound." Cooper attempted to defend the situation, to show that he was still in control, but it became difficult when Flores clearly wanted nothing more than to tear the information out of Surkov by any means necessary. If the information Surkov had could save her son, she would do anything to obtain it. Unfortunately that included trading Surkov for Sebastian.

Flores scoffed at his optimism, scowling at the very insinuation of more patience. "After nearly eight years, I expected better from the man who promised to catch Rais and make him pay for his crimes. Or have you simply given up on everything you promised to those poor boys?"

A grim expression befell Cooper at the harsh reality of her words. The implications were as clear as day, and he couldn't help but entertain the defensive anger dwelling just below the surface.

There were times during the years when Cooper honestly considered abandoning the search for Rais. He considered leaving the monster to his own devices for the safety of all involved. Perhaps it was simpler to leave the past buried, to take the life given as a fact rather than a changeable objective. Revenge was intoxicating, addicting like a sweet poison capable of destroying the liveliest man, but it only complicated matters. It was easier and safer, given the prospect of just how deadly the hunt for Rais had become, to swallow his pride and declare Rais as the winner.

Although, he would have hated himself for the remainder of his existence after such a cowardliness act.

Cooper would have been willing to accept defeat had it not been for the innocent souls affected like Mick. Pride be damned. Defeat was difficult for most men, and Cooper was no exception. But he had a purpose for the ruthless hunt. It wasn't necessarily about revenge for him. True, he wanted Rais to pay for what the bastard did to Mick and Liam and all others who suffered as they did. However, it wasn't blind revenge that drove his perseverance, as it was for Mick.

He had always kept his word to a fault. When he promised to find the bastard responsible for the inhumane torture and murder of countless innocent souls and bring him to justice, he intended to do just that. It had taken more than seven years and eleven months to compile details, far too long for any other case he had ever worked on, and the doubt was inescapable. Years wasted in the hunt for a ghost, a phantom whom Cooper had only seen a few brief times almost eight years prior, created more speculation than answers. Aside from the complicity of the case and the dangers placed upon all who dared to assist Cooper, the reasons behind his stemmed from that particular promise.

While he _thought _about abandonment, he never once accepted it as an actual solution towards anything.

Cooper regained his wits, drawing himself to an intimidating and demanding height as he narrowed his eyes and drew his jaw taunt. "You know as well as I do that you're just spouting for leverage to verify your point. It's a good point, I'll admit, but this doesn't solve anything. If you want to find Sebastian alive, you need to trust that I know what I'm doing. _If_ Surkov knows where Rais was last seen, and _if_ she has any idea where he is or what happened to Sebastian, we'll find out. All we need is time…"

Flores threw her head back dramatically, running her hands through her hair to push the locks flat against her skull. "I don't have _time_, Sam."

"Then after we're done with her, we'll go back to the conference room and you can fill me in on the details. I'll even wake the team and get their inputs on everything."

"One, one, eight, five, _Igor_." Surkov's unsteady response temporarily ceased the argument. She peeled one eye open to glare between the two agents lazily. Lucidity was slipping away by the seconds and her strength wavered as she fought to remain conscious.

Cooper studied her in the candlelight, his head cocked to one side slightly and a befuddled poise to his features.

_Igor _was only a mention from James. It was a word he heard while in captivity almost eight years ago. He hadn't clarified if it belonged to a person or place, seeing as he didn't know and it was never determined during his days in Iraq, and was one of the more graphic descriptions he had given in regards to what he recalled from the thirty days of confinement. _Igor _was mentioned by Rais shortly after James had witnessed Liam's third finger forcibly removed during an interrogation session. There was a problem in some form, and Rais' second in command interrupted the session to deliver the troubling news in hushed Arabic that neither James nor Liam could translate.

To what extent _one-one-eight-five Igor _related to Rais, no one knew. Cooper tried to recall any mention of such an obscure piece of information in any of the previous notes taken by himself or Mick throughout the years. As far as he could remember, the information was entirely new to both parties. Rais, supposedly, had multiple safe houses and bunkers scattered beneath the surfaces in several key countries he had control in. No one had ever found one and lived to talk about it, and Cooper had the sinking suspicion _Igor _may have been proof of one in particular.

"Who is _Igor_?" Flores demanded venomously.

Surkov had lolled her head to the side whilst Cooper and Flores argued, her eyelids heavy and movements lethargic, and Cooper feared she had lapsed back into feverous unconsciousness. One eye strained to remain open, unfocused as it stared sightlessly towards the shadowed ceiling. Panic subsided as consciousness slipped away in remarkably fast intervals. Sleep was going to take her at any moment, Cooper could see the signs easily, and therefore she needed to answer as many questions as possible before that point.

Who knew when she would awake to lucidity again?

She didn't response for an entire minute. Her expression fell, eyes slid closed and mouth parted as if she found it difficult to breathe, and Cooper called her name twice as he feared she slipped away before she could answer. At the stern mention of her name, she swallowed convulsively and returned one hazy unseeing eye towards the ceiling. "My grave." The answer was spoken in nothing more than a fading exhale before consciousness lapsed completely.

* * *

Sebastian was taken from his workplace in Barcelona Aquarium on February twenty-ninth.

According to the security footage Flores managed to manipulate from the local authorities, Sebastian had been walking home from a late shift at the aquarium when he was ambushed. The presence of night and the minimum slew of people disguised the kidnapper's black utility van. Their faces were never identified, masked with plain off-white plastic and black attire, and the van was set ablaze in a grocery parking lot an hour later. DNA evidence was destroyed by the gasoline fire, but three out of the five kidnappers were executed and left in the van before it was burned. Authorities had no way of identifying who the men were because the bodies had their teeth forcibly removed along with their hands and feet before execution.

No doubt to discourage identification using dental records and the remaining skin.

Aside from the single bullet wound to the back of the skull, one unlucky bastard had received a broken jaw during the time of Sebastian's kidnapping. The autopsy report stated that the jaw was broken by a long metal pipe swung from someone left handed. Concussive force wouldn't have knocked the man unconscious, but he would have been rendered useless for several minutes until he could regain himself.

Security footage confirmed that Sebastian was carrying a large umbrella latched to his satchel, and Cooper assumed that the metal handle was used against the men in self defense.

Anabela, Sebastian's pregnant fiancé, waited until morning to contact the aquarium when he didn't return to their apartment that night. She was told that Sebastian left work at two in the morning when his shift ended, and was officially late for the first time in the two years he had been working at the aquarium. Anabela became worried and tried to contact him via his cell phone, but the phone was disconnected. She contacted the authorities, used Flores's name to stir them into action, and then proceeded to assist with the investigation in any way she could.

Flores was called later that night when Sebastian's umbrella, satchel, and a bag of his hair were delivered to Anabela, all of which were covered in someone else's blood. DNA was run through Interpol databases, but didn't wield any results as to who the blood belonged to. At the same time, Flores was given an unmarked package by carrier to her home in Forest Hills. The kidnappers had given her a single note attached to a digital CD.

The note instructed her to call a given phone number, while the CD was used to deliver strict instructions in a looped audio file.

Flores had submitted to the predictable mindset most mothers who witnessed their children in danger fell into. She followed the orders given by the kidnappers, hadn't spoken to anyone about Sebastian's kidnapping, and lied as best she could because the kidnappers promised to leave Sebastian unscathed if she complied. The note was burned in her fireplace as instructed, the phone number memorized, and the CD was kept in a secure safe inside her home.

She determined that Rais was behind the kidnapping after the authorities stopped their searching for Sebastian just a week into the investigation. Their excuse was that Interpol took the case, but after a long winded conversation, Interpol claimed that the investigation was officially closed. No one knew why or who was responsible for sealing the case files. All anyone could tell her was it became a search for a dead body rather than a missing person, and the lack of evidence or leads deemed it as a cold case.

In other words, Rais used his international contacts to stop authorities from prying into the details.

Cooper tried to press for more detail as to what Rais demanded from Flores. He was perched in the familiar creaky office chair behind his desk, socked feet propped precariously on an edge and posture tense. Scratchy ink cursive lettering was freshly scrawled against weathered pages of an old black leather bound notebook splayed in his lap. The tip of his ballpoint pen hovered over the next line of notes. A crease formed at the dark skin of his forehead in thought, attentive eyes studying Flores opposite him with a mixture of sympathy and frustration.

Flores, on the edge of her seat nervously, refused to clarify any of her obscure responses. She focused on the stack of paperwork and case files scattered about the desk instead. The desk lamp impeded the shroud of darkness cast over the room, the familiar sounds of the occasional passing car outside drowned in the patter of a chilly spring rain against the window, and the rhythmic hum of Mick's counter-surveillance machine placed in one corner of the room. She was ashamed by her actions, Cooper could see, and therefore didn't want to look him in the eye. Her hands fumbled with the handle of her coffee mug anxiously, her eyes dampened by the shameful spill of tears while she confessed her betrayal.

"What did Rais order you to do?" Cooper questioned sternly, tracing the older woman's gaze to the framed photo of Cooper and the team placed against the lamp. In the scattered mess of paper that usually littered his desk, the frame was the only piece of customization that rarely ever moved. It was one of his most prized possessions, taken on the eve of the first Christmas spent together as a family, and Flores's apologetic expression suggested her actions affected them as a team in some fashion.

"They will kill him…"

"Not if we find him first."

She dropped the ceramic mug on the floor beside her with a deafening clatter and slid back in the seat to wring her hands together. A weary breath was taken to calm herself, the back of her hand dabbed at her eyes briefly. "How can you be so sure? Rais does not leave people alive once he is finished with them."

Normally, Cooper wouldn't have been able to argue with her on that point. Rais was notorious for the execution of those he deemed no longer important to him. He used people to his advantage for as long as he possibly could. Then, once he had no more use for them, he disposed of them and the risks to himself accordingly.

The only known inconsistency to that assessment was James and the rest of his team. James Mills, Evan Bennett, Bret Phillips, William Holmes, and Michael Rawson were supposed to die in an underground bunker in Iraq almost eight years ago. Rais used them for information against the British Army because they were the best SAS team available. Speculations and assumptions led to that conclusion, although Cooper did have doubts about the validity. There was so much more to his reasons than Cooper or anyone else could fathom.

However, in spite of thirty days of inhumane and relentless torture, they survived. The only one that didn't utter a single state secret under the influence of a lethal drug forcibly injected into their systems was Mick. He and Cooper saved his teammates, and Cooper believed he could do the same for Sebastian.

"Rais disposes of those he doesn't _need _anymore." Cooper responded to Flores's mumbled question. "And he's too quick to fall for any kind of ruse that would lure him into a trap, such as baiting him by pretending to continue with his orders. What we need to do, until we can gather more information to point us in the right direction, is make Sebastian invaluable. He needs to believe that Sebastian is the key to turning you against us. All you've done so far is argue and then comply when they threaten Sebastian."

"They have only given proof of life twice." Flores interrupted. "The first was two days after I received the first instructions. They allowed me to talk with him for a minute."

"And in exchange, what did they have you do?"

Anxious eyes fell to the picture frame once more, a shake of her head and a scowl portrayed self loathing. "I was sent an unmarked bottle of pills. They looked just like sleeping pills that I would normally prescribe to a patient who suffered from severe insomnia caused by Post Trauma Stress Disorder. During a session with Mick, I was to give him the pills and convince him that they would help him sleep…"

Cooper dropped his feet to the floor in an instant. His book and pen were slapped on the desk, the jostle of paperwork threatening to dislodge his coffee cup. Fear began to simmer to the surface, dark eyes wide and demanding as he intervened hastily. "You gave Mick a bottle of pills sent by the very bastard that wants to drive him into an early grave? How the hell could you do that?"

Flores flinched at his hissed words and defended herself. "No, I _lied _to them. I never gave Mick the pills. Instead, I substituted them for another _authentic _bottle. One of the pills was sent to a private chemistry lab for testing. The results were sent yesterday. They are a carefully man-made mixture of several very concentrated chemicals. There is nothing else like it in any achieves. According to the chemist I spoke to, the pills could, in theory, cause symptoms mimicking schizophrenia."

Drugs used to mimic schizophrenia were not only highly illegal, but incredibly difficult to perfect. Any number of complications could occur upon taking the drugs, from death to full psychosis. Cooper had only seen the aftermath of the drugs when they were used to induce severe hallucinations in James and the rest of his team. The drugs and the torture had almost killed Mick, as well as tore any sanity from Liam by forcing an addiction that could only be remedied with the support of heroin.

There was a history of schizophrenia in Mick's family. Sofia Baines, Mick's grandmother, was institutionalized shortly after adopting Mick and Jenna to London because she was deemed violent. She hadn't been officially diagnosed with schizophrenia until that time. It was odd, because schizophrenia tended to present itself no later than the age of thirty, and Cooper assumed she had just relapsed. More than likely, she had the symptoms when she was young but it somehow went into a rare remission. The loss of her daughter and son-in-law probably caused the relapse.

If Rais knew the family history, he could have planned to use the drugs to draw the schizophrenia to the surface. He could, within the length of six months, destroy Mick from the inside out.

"So Rais wanted you to help drive Mick insane?"

"I risked everything by not complying with his orders." Flores retorted, finally catching his gaze sincerely. "I thought he had already killed Sebastian, that he somehow knew I switched the pills. He said that he has people watching from a distance, and he would know when the drugs began working. But Mick is stubborn and horribly independent. He won't take the pills I gave him, no matter how much Gina begs him to. They said I had to convince him, or their third proof of life would be one of Sebastian's fingers."

"Which brings us to the latest proof of life…"

"What you heard in the basement was the next set of orders. I refused profusely, told them that I would not do anything without speaking to Sebastian first. They gave me one minute before they pulled the phone from him. I could hear him fight against them, and then he yelped and became silent." Flores continued, swallowing the lump in her throat at the memory of the conversation.

Cooper sighed into his hands, worrying his lip for a moment in thought. The situation was far worse than he anticipated. Flores was clearly too compromised by the kidnapping of her only son and the blackmail Rais had used to leverage her into his bidding. She was still withholding details, he could see in her eyes, which meant that Rais had manipulated her at a level he didn't think possible. In her perspective, the only way to save her son was to comply with Rais. But Rais wouldn't simply return Sebastian to her once he was finished, and she had already acknowledged that. Flores was a liability to the case and the safety of the team.

She was necessary, though, and Cooper was at a loss for solutions because he couldn't justify dismissing her from the case entirely. Even if he did contact Fickler with the information and she was taken from the case, that wouldn't stop her from trying to save her son.

"What were the latest orders?" He asked through his hand, scratching the thin scruff beneath his chin as his mind pondered reasonable outcomes.

Flores hesitated, just long enough to lean forward in her seat and grasp the photo frame from Cooper's desk to study it with a forced neutral expression. "He knows that Surkov and Lucas Baines are in the country. Somehow he found that Lucas went to Florida and Surkov stayed in DC. I highly doubt he knows that Surkov came to us for assistance and refuge. He wanted me to locate Surkov and bring her to his men when the time comes. If he has people in DC, than he most likely has people in Florida too."

Which meant that Lucas wasn't just the unsub, but the victim as well. And the team was stuck in the crosshairs between Rais and two of his most deadly assassins.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Finally! I feel so damned accomplished! First, hello people! It's been a busy few weeks and time for writing had been difficult to find. Hopefully everyone is still enjoying the story and doesn't think I've abandoned them. Secondly, the idea for this chapter was prompted by the wonderful and encouraging RawSon.M. You have been great and I look forward to speaking with you again.  
Now, about the chapter… Essentially, the premise for the chapter hinders on Flores. The fact that her only son was taken by Rais to be used as leverage really pits her against the rest of the team. She is willing to do anything, regardless of the consequences, to ensure that Sebastian returns to his family safely. Whether that includes actually betraying the team or simply trying to trick Rais, I don't want to spoil it just yet. She didn't, however, give Mick the pills as instructed by Rais. That may or may not be proof to which direction she'll take to get Sebastian back. Lastly, _1185 Igor _holds a large significance to Rais. I've got big plans for it in the future.  
So, I think that covers everything for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are wonderful and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work. All of you have been absolutely amazing and encouraging.


	18. Dragged You Out

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 18 Dragged You Out

We believed that Lucas Baines traveled to Florida under the order from Rais to wreak havoc. Given the evidence, that was a reasonable assumption. He had been spotted running surveillance tactics against Mick and I to compile information as to our routines and whereabouts. Knowing that he had been seen, which I truly believed was a purposeful act to lure Mick away from me for a single moment, he led him into the danger of a speeding vehicle that could have had devastating effects. A custom arrow shot into a sandcastle directly in front of Mick and I was an unidentified message or warning. All evidence suggested that Lucas Baines was trying to divide us, for purposes I could only speculate, and that was a distinct tactic used solely by assassins under Rais' control.

Divide the victims from possible assistance, and then eliminate them one by one with no risk of interruptions.

However, after forty minutes of debriefing from our teammates, I came to the startling realization that Lucas had his own agenda. He wasn't working _for _Rais anymore, if Surkov was being honest, but for his own needs. Whatever those _needs _were involved separating Mick and I, using counter measures to ensure that neither Mick nor I could locate him, and betraying Surkov by poisoning her.

No one knew why Lucas Baines appeared to have turned against Rais. Speculation could be drawn, but the concrete explanations were entirely foreign. Surkov was too incoherent to explain much of anything. All we knew was that Lucas and Surkov traveled to the US together under an adjoined identity, a fellow assassin by the name of Jonah was sent to silence them because they were a liability to Rais, and we were essentially caught in the crossfire.

Because Lucas Baines had been running with his own plans, and the man was practically a ghost in the rest of the world after Rais spent years convincing everyone that he was dead, I was understandably reluctant to give Lucas any possible leverage to accelerate his plans. _Leverage, _although unavoidable considering the circumstances of family persistence, meant separation. If Lucas honestly wanted one or both of us dead, I had no desire to leave Mick's side. He could have killed us together flawlessly, but I had the sinking suspicion that his plans didn't include such a thing.

Unfortunately separation was inevitable.

I had been warned the previous night by Helen that Mick and I were expected to have our _wedding attire _fitted for Ariel's wedding the next afternoon. The warning did nothing to prepare either of us for the sheer boredom. True to preconceived assumptions, the entire experience was unsettling.

Mick and I had slept on the patio couch until shortly after seven-thirty in the morning. Admittedly, those few hours of blissful dreamless rest were refreshing. Neither of us anticipated Leo or my mother snapping pictures of us with their cell phones, and the sudden shrill shutter of the phones shook us awake rather violently. The position we were in, tucked side-by-side whilst somehow remaining slouched, and the embarrassment at the sight of two people with cameras less than three feet away drew upon instinct before I could react accordingly. Mick jumped, startled and still sleepy, and reached for the nearest defensive object in sight. Simultaneously I reacted poorly to the noise of giggles from my mother and subconsciously dug my elbow into Mick's ribs as I bolted upright. He dropped the flashlight he had used the night before with a grunt of pain and a mumble of what I assumed were curses in Welsh beneath his breath.

Over the course of three hours we had eaten breakfast, showered and dressed for a warm spring day in the city, _settled_ matters with Leo, defended our sleeping arrangements far too many times to be debatable, and was debriefed via private phone call by our teammates in DC about their situation. While Mick ate his second serving of pancakes and bacon, because apparently almost twenty-four hours without food left him starved, we had to fend against the implications thrown by Leo, my parents, and Gabrielle.

_Technically,_ we did _sleep together_. But despite my mother's worries and my father's threats to skin Mick alive if we were lying to him, the act was purely innocent in nature. It wasn't what the rest of the world, or my family for that matter, would possibly think.

I confronted Leo about the pictures he took. There was nothing I could do about those taken by my mother. Her phone was always glued to her, and I knew she was compiling a scrapbook of the reunion and wedding and the photos would only be shared with family or close friends. Leo, however, had a _Facebook _account and who knew what other social media outlet on the internet.

FBI Red Cell members were encouraged to keep a low profile, meaning social media was discouraged as it was dangerous to the safety of the agents. Red Cells were responsible for the capture of the nation's worst serial killers. Our identities had to be kept on a need-to-know basis for protection against those who may have wanted to even the playing field.

At least, that was the excuse I gave the seventeen year old.

Leo didn't care about protocols. So, in order to adhere to the protocols of safety for us, I distracted him long enough for Mick to lift his cell phone from his back jeans pocket. Within half a minute, the battery had been stored in Mick's jacket pocket and the SIM chip followed before the phone was replaced. Leo realized half an hour later that Mick had stolen from him and tried to physically take it from him. Uncle Clyde and my father broke them apart seconds before Mick put him in a choke hold for invading his personal space.

"I should have warned you earlier." I whispered to Leo, leaning a hip against the kitchen island table as the teenager held Mick's gaze opposite him with a sense of severe loathing simmering upon his features. Mick was sipping a cup of coffee, looking particularly smug as he perched himself against the sink counter. "He's fluent in five languages, so he could curse you a million times over and you would never know it. And he's an expert in several forms of martial arts as well as Britain's best sniper. If you like living, you may want to keep your hands to yourself and not try to fight with him. Because you can't win against someone like him."

Leo stared me for a long few moments, expression tight and eyes calculating, and simply nodded in submission as my father and Clyde joined us from the living room.

Hours later, closer to noon, we were separated by two city blocks in the heart of Jacksonville. Afternoon sun glistened off of the nearby surfaces blindingly. Rows of buildings, shops and independents, were only scarcely familiar. In the distance, caws from seagulls and similar birds hinted to the livelihood of the ocean, alluring and peaceful in stark contrast to the busy city life.

Mick joined Keith and the rest of the men in my family to a tailor shop, albeit to his displeasure, two blocks opposite a pricy bridal gown store. Neither of us was thrilled with the prospect of renting or purchasing wedding attire. It was required for Ariel's wedding, despite our silent procrastinating protests, and our discomforts were relatively transparent. Throughout the journey to the shops, I spent more attention on my cell phone than actually engaging in conversation with family.

The debriefing from Cooper hadn't settled well with Mick or me. I hadn't spoken a word about the subject since the debriefing. My patents were genuinely perceptive by nature, a trait I admittedly inherited from them, and any minor innuendoes as to the fact that we were investigating an international mass murderer would have brought quite a few unanswerable questions. They didn't need to know that Lucas Baines posed a danger to our family, and Mick and I were going to assist Cooper with the search for Flores' son in any way possible from our current location. As it seemed, my mother and Helen had seen the caution Mick and I had portrayed when in the public eye. They had witnessed the telltale signs of a standard perimeter check, the constant glares towards possible sniper perches - although Lucas Baines was rumored to prefer arrows over bullets - and the defensive knives tucked in both of our boots. I could excuse Mick's behavior to them with the simple explanation of habit created from his years in war. My behavior, however, was questioned with intensely curious glares.

The shop itself was stunningly elegant with its navy blue and white polished layout. It was spacious enough to indicate privacy, but a far cry from what I expected. Independent rooms were filled with hung dresses on metal racks, wrapped in protective plastic sleeves. The majority of rooms were centered on actual wedding dresses, with manikins portraying various styles and shades of white similar to the entirely of the building, and mirrors lining a single wall behind a retractable changing curtain. Few others were strictly for brides' maids and the like. Not to be outdone, those rooms mimicked the others save for the variances in colored dresses. Rows of jewelry and accessories encased in glass sat to one end of the room, and the check-out counter was nearby.

Aside from the merchandise, two comfortable, matching styled, sitting areas were placed on either end of the main room. There was more than enough room on the couch to sit beside both Helen and Gabrielle without feeling claustrophobic. Grandmother Marlene and Clyde's wife, Veronica, occupied the two large armchairs whilst flipping through a catalog and magazine from the coffee table. Ariel and my mother had disappeared to a room with another nameless woman working alongside two of her other colleagues. Unfortunately another family provided a psychologically fascinating scene near the check-out counter, where a rather large woman in a frilly pink summer dress created a fuss over the fact that her wedding dress popped a seam when she tried to fit it.

Insecurity at its best.

A soft and melodic sound of jazz music radiated from the ceiling speakers, capturing Helen's attention as she hummed to herself lightly beside me. Gabrielle was too focused on sketching something in her journal, once stored in the rather flamboyant tote bag she called a purse draped against her green sandaled feet, the material of her sea blue pants pulled just above her boney ankles and her graying dirty blonde hair ruffled against the shoulders of her white blouse carelessly, to care for my actions.

I chose to bide my time by talking with Mick via text messages. The building was a bit chillier than anticipated, and I paused in mid-type to pull the dark violet cotton of my sweater jacket closer to my chest. Wearing boots rather than sandals or casual slip-ons as the rest of my family had done drew strange glances from the staff of the shop. Even Ariel questioned my desire to not adhere to the normalcy of those around us, after choosing the comfortingly familiar attire of skinny jeans and a thin dark blouse, but I honestly couldn't find a reason to care for their single-minded thoughts. Instead, I perched one elbow against the armrest of the couch and grinned as I reread our line of current conversation again.

'_Area secured, darling?'_

'_Of course. Everything alright with my father? He's not decided to cut out your tongue yet, has he?'_

There were a few minutes of disconcerting pause before he replied. In those minutes, the thought of my father ripping out Mick's tongue because he referred to me by one of his pet names made me anxious for his reply.

'_No, but I haven't given him any reason to. Though, I suspect that could change if he reads this line of conversation.' _Another minute passed, which I imagined was caused by something else momentarily capturing his attention. _'So, what are you wearing?'_

I choked back a snort at the question, reading it over and over as an incredulous grin split my face. Helen turned to me questioningly at the noise; raising an eyebrow as she mutely asked what I thought was entertaining. I mumbled a quick excuse about Mick being amusing before typing the response into the phone. _'Yes, because I will honestly answer that and feed your perverted thoughts.'_

'_Sarcasm doesn't suit you, darling. It was an innocent question enough. Why would you think it was something else?'_

'_Because I know you.'_

'_Too true. Do I still get an answer?'_

'_Hell no. That was horribly corny, by the way.'_

'_Yes it was…'_

His persistent banter had been a distraction for both. Flirting, knowing that he would never truly get any type of stereotypical reaction, was a challenge that neither of us could resist. It was mindless and simplistic, playfully deliberate, and the implications behind our words were rarely ever true. We held too much respect for each other to honestly mean any of the standard flirting innuendoes.

The next line of conversation interrupted my smile briefly, and unintentionally drew the attention of Gabrielle.

'_If Baines does pull another stunt within the next few hours, we may have to reschedule our dinner date tonight.'_

Confused by his words, I read the message several times with a heavy confused frown written upon my features. Unbeknownst to me, it seemed that he had planned some kind of dinner later in the evening. Probably at a familiar restaurant, such as the fish and chips restaurant we had eaten at the day before, with little to no invasions from pesky family members, knowing how crafty he could be when it came to surprises. Then again, he could have been setting another ploy of flirtatiously funny and ridiculous innuendoes to pass the time.

Either way, I couldn't respond for several minutes. Helen, Veronica, and Marlene were summoned by the woman assisting Ariel and my mother. They were directed to a separate room, one containing the bride maids' dresses, whilst Gabrielle and I were told to wait a few more minutes for another employee to become free. I procrastinated in responding to Mick, so much so that Gabrielle ceased her drawing and looked towards the phone expectantly.

Perceptiveness, as I've always suspected, has been genetic throughout my family for generations. Gabrielle LaSalle was no exception to that, and I knew by her steely aged blue stare that she was profiling me in the most rudimentary fashion. To her, it wasn't _profiling_. It was an unspoken intuition, something she couldn't ignore, and in the course of her lifetime it had been an invaluable asset. But I wasn't comfortable by her analytical gaze.

Mick questioned if I was still willing to talk with him, so I typed a quick reply before addressing my grandmother. _'Are you thinking aloud again? I thought we agreed that your strange thoughts should remain unspoken. I never agreed to a dinner with you tonight.'_

'_Ow, love. That stung. Yes, I was thinking aloud again. I know you didn't agree to it, but you will.'_ His response restored a smirk to my face, only to be swept away once more in disappointment as he continued. _'Have to go for an hour. My turn with the tailor. I'll message you once I'm done. Keep your eyes open for anything strange and be careful.'_

"You two seem particularly close for two uninvolved people." Gabrielle mused aloud as I slid my phone back into my purse and sighed exaggeratedly. Her pencil hovered over a page in her journal, her features portraying a mixture of contemplation and puzzlement. I knew that look, that tone she used when assessing a situation, and it wasn't one I was particularly fond of. She was reading between the lines, as she always did, but in this instance, it wasn't appreciated. Assumptions were going to be made regardless of my opinion of the subject. While they were most likely true in nature, I didn't believe a bridal shop was the best place to discuss such matters.

In that moment, I felt as though I had to defend myself. There was a perfectly good excuse and explanation for the bond Mick and I had developed within the past few years. The explanation was a bit too revealing for my taste, considering I couldn't even admit it as a fact, so I settled for the excuse.

"He's been a mental wreck since the beginning of last year." The statement was spoken with a heavy tongue, hushed and bitten through anxiously clenched teeth as I scanned the surrounding area to ensure no one would overhear. "Just to get things out into the open and stop all of the assumptions everyone has made since yesterday: Mick and I are partners. We've been close friends for the past few years and probably more so over the past year than anyone else in either of our lives."

Gabrielle knitted her brow and placed her pencil on the creased spine of her journal. "I can see that…"

"We've been living together since last November." I continued before she could utter another word. "Some terrible things happened last year and it all came to a climax in November. He tried to drink himself to death, even admitted that it was a suicide attempt, and that's why we've been living together. He needs someone to keep his head on straight and someone to keep him from going back to scotch for answers."

The truth, while necessary, was difficult to speak aloud. It wasn't a subject I was keen to discuss with family. Mick's _breakdown, _for lack of a better term, last year had been one of the most frightening things I had ever witnessed. His admittance to the suicide attempt months later justified our living conditions. For Mick's sake of dignity, I felt that there was no need for more detail. The condensed story held merit, judging by Gabrielle's momentarily stunned speechlessness.

She studied me in silence, her gaze fixated and calculating. A single minute passed before she retorted with a surprising supportive nod. "Well, that certainly explains everything. You're doing a great job, by the way, if the way he talks to you is any indication." She returned the pencil to her fingers and tapped it against the page of her journal, pausing long enough to change the conversation. "For the record, I already knew there was something far more profound between the two of you. My only question is why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Something _profound _was the best description I had ever heard for the relationship.

The differences between her and my parents were night and day. She understood in a manner that didn't need words. Experience from her marriage to Grandfather Howard, before his passing when my father was young, taught her tolerance towards those who were mentally damaged. In all honesty, I was appreciative for that.

"Mick is probably the most arrogant and prideful man I have ever met. He doesn't lose, and if he does, he gets pretty pissed off about it. I didn't say anything sooner because I would never hear the end of it."

Gabrielle smirked knowingly, "That doesn't surprise me."

Our conversation was interrupted before I could respond. Not by the fussing large woman and her family at the check-out line, or the employees that were assigned to assist us. Instead, it was the sudden melodic door bell that announced a new arrival in the shop and captured our attention. Gabrielle and I turned towards the source of the noise instantly, as did the employee at the counter, but it wasn't as expected. Another customer in search of a wedding dress, or even someone who desired to play delivery boy, would have been disregarded as normalcy.

However, neither Gabrielle nor I could fathom why two men in dark colored and clearly well worn suits entered the store. At first glance, the older of the two was most likely in his late forties with a typical graying brunette ear-length haircut. His suit was pressed stiffly to mimic superiority, and the impassive glint to his harsh eyes settled on Gabrielle and I within moments. There was uneasiness to his stance, bordering on impatience as he nudged the other man with his elbow to approach us in unison with him.

The other man, much to my absolute astonishment, was none other than Seth McCall.

I hadn't seen or heard from Seth since our argument shortly before I joined Cooper's team years ago. At the time he had been on the verge of stalking me, although we were partners in the FBI and good friends, and it wasn't until an epiphany hit that I realized just how dangerous he could have been. There was no one else significant in my life at the time, considering I had just graduated from the FBI academy months before, and I gravitated towards Seth as a mentor and friend. He misread my actions and had inadvertently turned them into an unhealthy obsession for himself. It wasn't the fact that he didn't want me to leave him as a partner so much as it was his unwillingness to show support for anything that didn't involved both of us that really warranted my decision to leave him.

He had changed as far as physical appearance over the years. His preference for black dress shoes matched the weathered gray and black suit, some of the visible seams fraying around the cuffs and pockets with age, the shoes themselves scuffed on the toes but masked faintly by polish. Brown-orange hair was in desperate need of a hairbrush as it sprung haphazardly in whichever direction the breeze outside dictated, as if he had tried to use his hand to smooth it. Nervousness clouded his hazel eyes but vanished into something more controlled and professional when the other man elbowed him forward.

I stammered for words as I rose to my feet quickly. The recognition, the quick flash of our last unpleasant encounter, left me speechless in a state I could only label with the words of _what the freaking hell_. Immature, I knew, but I couldn't formulate the proper words to describe how baffled I was at his presence. Beside me, Gabrielle stood as well and fell inline beside me, her stance protective and unyielding as she studied the two men wordlessly.

"Agent Gina LaSalle?" The older man announced, waiting for my nod before he continued. "Would you step outside for a few minutes? There is something we need to discuss with you and Agent Rawson." His tone was nothing if not demanding, and I had the sinking suspicion that he wouldn't give me any other choice in the matter.

I knew there were no alternatives other than compliance, but that didn't mean I couldn't drag my feet on the way out. "Seth, it's good to see you again." I drew Seth into a tight embrace, my arms around his shoulders just long enough to cause a surprised reaction from both. He tensed at the action but didn't push me away. In those few seconds, I was able to snake my fingers into his back suit pocket and hook his wallet. Mick had taught me many unorthodox tricks over the past few years, and picking pockets was a skill I never believed would be so useful.

As soon as I released him I sidestepped to avoid his reach. His eyes landed on the worn brown leather wallet, shocked and dismayed that I had deceived him. Rather than giving him any recognition, I flipped the wallet open in one hand and sorted through the contents. If my intuition was correct, and it normally was on matters such as this, Seth was no longer FBI. The FBI team assigned to the Rais case by Fickler was still holed in DC, and Fickler would have alerted Cooper, who would have alerted me, if that changed in any way. We hadn't seen any CIA operatives tailing us since before we left DC but with the knowledge of Lucas Baines running around, that could have changed throughout the night.

Seth didn't have any close family. There were no pictures of relatives or siblings, although I was fairly certain he didn't have any that would talk with him, or any semblance of his life that would lead to a decent profile. Two prepaid credit cards, a driver's license with the name of _Jason Prescott _rather than _Seth McCall_, and two hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills. A few receipts for gasoline and food suggested they had arrived in Florida overnight, but there was no hotel room card or receipt. Which meant that they were staying in a safe house paid by the agencies they were employed under.

His employers gave him a new alias for good reason. However, they either hadn't done their homework and didn't know that Seth and I had been partners, or they were planning to use him to convince me to do whatever they wanted. Neither scenario settled well with me.

"Agent LaSalle, I'm afraid we don't have time for games…" The older of the two began as I returned Seth's wallet with a deflated sigh.

"Who are you and what do you want with my granddaughter?" Gabrielle demanded defensively.

"Walter Thompson. All we want is a quick word. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes…"

"Okay, you have two minutes to explain yourself. If I don't like what I hear, I'm leaving and there's not a damned thing either of you can do to stop me." Realistically, there was nothing to lose by simply hearing what they were offering. I wasn't implicated to agree or disagree, just listen. As long as I made that point drastically unquestionable, there was no harm that they could have done. Gabrielle was unconvinced, given her speculative expression, but I posed a reassuring smile that spoke volumes. "I'll be fine. Believe it or not, I am relatively good at two forms of martial arts taught by Mick. And you saw how quick he was with Leo this morning."

There were two critical purposes behind the uncharacteristic boasting. Gabrielle needed reassurance, otherwise I was sure she would have contacted my father in order to use his contacts to see what the hell was happening, and that would have led to questions no one wanted to answer. Secondly, Seth and Walter needed to realize that I couldn't be pushed into a corner without retaliation, and I knew how to defend myself appropriately.

Seth remained silent as Gabrielle gave a hesitant nod. He pierced his lip as if he was planning to say something, but Walter's cautious glare stopped him instantly. As soon as Gabrielle stepped back submissively, he spun on his heels and led the way out of the building with Walter two steps behind me.

Once out of the building he began towards a parked black SUV further down the street. I squinted at the brilliant sunlight refracting off of the tinted windows. The size and structure of the van was eerily familiar to those issued by the FBI during cases, yet I was confident Seth no longer worked with the FBI. I memorized the front bumper license plate for later use, and then paused momentarily at the sight of Mick leaning against the left side of the bumper with his arms folded over his chest and a rigid displeased scowl on his face.

Walter did say that he needed to speak with both Mick and me. At the moment he said that, it didn't occur to me that he had actually dragged Mick out of the tailor shop in the same manner as he had done to me. By the looks of things, considering Mick didn't have any new bruises or wasn't locked in the car in handcuffs, he didn't fight them. He wasn't pleased by the invasion or the undoubtedly uneasy display they created, but he visibly settled his anxious boot shuffling against the weathered sidewalk once he caught my attention.

"What the hell is all of this about?" Mick questioned as soon as Seth and Walter were in earshot. He gave me no time to argue as he grasped my wrist in a surprising grip and pulled me behind him, drawing himself tall and intimidating. His words were harsh and unnecessarily hostile, his accent as sharp as a knife.

It was ridiculous, I silently determined as I pushed Mick's outstretched hand away and stood defiantly beside him, because there was no need for the sudden brash protectiveness. Seth and Walter posed no immediate threat, although we had no reason to believe that they weren't bought by Rais in some fashion, and we would have been safe if we were to remain alert.

"It would be best if we spoke in private." Walter motioned to the car with a wave of his hand as Seth pulled the keys from his pocket.

"This is about as private as you're going to get." I retorted shortly, narrowing my eyes in obvious distrust. "You really expect us to get into a car belonging to two people we don't know, just to talk? Who the hell are you anyways? CIA, Interpol…"

"Some people that want to help you with your problems." Seth intervened, despite Walter's disdain, far more civilized and informative than I anticipated. "It's CIA, by the way. I was offered the job shortly after you left. Walter runs our entire unit."

Seth, in my opinion, was never _CIA material_. He was crafty and brilliant as an FBI profiler, held quite a good reputation for himself over the years, but he wasn't capable of adhering to the stress the CIA would have created. Had it been any other person, I probably wouldn't have cared that the CIA took him from the FBI. But something about the fact that it was Seth, someone I had a complicated past history with, stirred an uneasiness in my conscious that I couldn't shake.

Mick furrowed his brow as he turned to me. His eyes glazed over Seth just long enough to make a rough assessment. Neither of us would ever admit it, Mick did have a tendency towards jealousy when another man approached me. Whether the man was interested or not, he chose an intimidating and protective stance that often chased away most men. He knew about Seth from the lengthy conversations we had years ago, and he should have known that Seth didn't pose a threat to our relationship. But something in the scorning expression on his features told me that he wasn't going to cooperate fully.

"Our _problems_? Since when does the CIA give a damn about our _problems_?"

"Since your team started digging into something you had no business with." Walter retorted forcefully. He stepped forward, just enough to lower his voice and reduce the possibility of the wind carrying his words. "We've been ordered to offer a truce and trade. In exchange for your cooperation, we have been authorized to share details of our investigation with you and your teammates."

The CIA, the operatives assigned to capture Rais, had never been inviting. They played us for fools in Alaska, used an undercover operative to take the best lead we had out of our hands before we could even blink, and no one on our team was forgiving towards them. For them to offer any sort of deal or truce was puzzling. Any data they had pertaining to Rais was sure to be invaluable. But everything they had done, just short of arresting us, had been to intimidate us away from the hunt for Rais.

So what changed? What made them desire our cooperation and assistance enough that they would have been willing to deal with us?

"And by _cooperation, _you mean…" Mick pressed for more of an explanation, distrust clouding his tone.

Seth motioned to the van with his hand once more, jingling the keys expectantly. "A trade of information between both parties. We compile all of our data into one single profile and see where that leads."

The problem with that idea was trust. It sounded plausible, tempting even, but I knew better. I knew something was wrong with the offer. There was an array of reasons to be weary of the offer. They could have been laying a trap, presenting redacted data or data we already had in exchange for everything we had gathered over the course of our investigation. An even more troubling thought centered on the possibility that this was part of Rais's plans. They could have been bought by Rais and sent to dispose of us.

Hence why neither Mick nor I entered the back of the van once the door was opened for us.

They did present a tempting offer, and I could almost visibly see the temptation working its way through Mick's conscious as he teetered on his heels uncomfortably. We speculated that the CIA had a damned good reason for keeping the investigation into Rais solely in their hands. They didn't want any other agency digging, whether it was Interpol or MI6 or the FBI. Whatever ties they had, whatever they were trying to cover, was damning or humiliating.

As tempting as the prospect of answers was, we didn't jump at the offer as Seth and Walter obviously predicted. Because of that, Seth used the only leverage available to emphasize his point. Unfortunately it was just enough to lure Mick into acceptance.

"We know what happened on your first encounter with Rais. We know what he did to you and your brother. I was under the impression that you wanted to avenge your brother. But if you don't want to cooperate, than this deal isn't mandatory…"

That was a low, unnecessary, blow. What they knew about Mick and his involvement with Rais was not something they should have played upon in good conscience. It was a manipulative and dirty move on their part. Mick spent years in search of Rais, risking every relationship he had for the sake of revenge against the bastard that destroyed his brother. He would do anything for answers that led to Rais's death, and there was virtually nothing that anyone could say to stop him.

Seth, the manipulative ass, somehow knew that.

"No." I hissed to Mick as he reached for the open door of the van, as if he had already made his decision. The stiffness to his posture and the seething retaliation on the tip of his tongue at the mention of his brother made him dangerous. No one ever mentioned Liam's demise unless it held pertinence to the matter at hand. Even then, it was a subject that always seemed to make him two seconds away from beating someone with his own hands. He ignored my tightened grip on his bicep, holding him back as I shot a spiteful glare towards Seth. Anyone else would have been shoved away violently at the contact. The person who had mentioned his brother would have been scolded and warned or received a fist to the face. But he would never harm me, and I used that to my advantage. "This is a mistake."

Mick hesitated momentarily, dark eyes darting between the three of us, and then he heaved a deflated sigh. He turned to Walter with a deadly glint in his eyes, the warning in his next words punctured as he held his ground. "You need us for whatever reason, so I suggest you don't try to manipulate us. If I think you're trying to play us again, if you harm us in any way or lock us away to keep us quiet, you'll both regret it."

The regret, in my opinion, was solely on us. Getting into that van was a mistake. Working with the CIA, agreeing to assist them in exchange for data that could have led us closer to Rais, was not going to end well for anyone.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back! It's been a while, I know, and I'm sorry for that. Things have been busy and writing has been difficult. Might I just say that writer's block is absolutely terrible. I just couldn't figure out how to start this. I pretty much had everything else set in place, but the beginning took me a while.  
Anyways, this chapter has a lot of moving pieces as far as the main story arc. There are some cute and funny parts between Mick and Gina, as well as Mick almost kicking Leo's ass for invading his personal space and Gina's warning. Gina's admission to Gabrielle was necessary because it has purpose in a later chapter. Seth's reappearance puts some strain and question to Mick and Gina's relationship, as does his relation to the CIA and the Rais case. Lastly, the proposition given by the CIA agents is tricky. Without spoiling it, I can say that things aren't as they seem.  
Okay, so I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Leave a review if you have the time. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work. The encouragement is truly wonderful. Just as a quick note, it's great to see new CMSB fics. I've enjoyed all of them, although I haven't reviewed and that is purely my fault. I hope to see more soon.  
I will add a proper title later today.


	19. For The Truth

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 19 For The Truth

'_You won't find me curling up  
A place that should make sense  
Well, excuse me for this better judgment  
Night is so worth waiting for  
A blinding scare so cauterizing  
Arms out pointing, sit and stare  
At this proof, this living proof.' _

A simplistic melody, a heartfelt pick and strum of a rough and alluring guitar, imperfect by most definitions, yet surprisingly captivating in its basic structure, suited the sincere vocalized lyrics. The music was hushed in the roar of the standard issued black SUV engine and the passing vehicles. But through the rush of city traffic, the blatant outer noises that demanded attention, those particular set of lyrics and notes captured Beth's attention above all else. The singer, from a band Prophet identified minutes before as _Chevelle_, held such conviction towards his lyrics, such an appeal to every pronounced syllable, that Beth found it almost elegant. In comparison to the rest of the album, which consisted of heavy and rhythmic melodies and psychologically interesting lyrics, that individual song was beginning to root itself in her memory as something _interesting_.

Beth, like the rest of her teammates, could never refuse _interesting _things.

Prophet's taste of music strayed between psychologically fascinating lyrics and melodic tones. Pitches were realistically imperfect, screams at times that seemed to give the melody a certain undefined definition, yet captivating all the same. The premise behind each song held its own set of emotions, and while most would simply focus on the storyline lyrics, Beth became enamored with the tune itself just as Prophet had. It was the same reason, she came to understand within the past half hour, why Mick and Prophet agreed to use their similar likes of music as a middle ground towards their friendship. Music was different for both, something wordlessly paramount and comforting, despite the seemingly dark lyrics.

Somehow, and she knew it was ridiculous, she pictured Liam Holmes with a guitar in his lap when the song began. She had seen few pictures of him over the past three months. In Mick's journals, primarily, when she had _stumbled _across them whilst babysitting Nikola while he and Gina were away. His love for music, as assumed based on everything Mick had ever spoken about the man, ran as deep as his soul for the entirety of his life. Beth had never heard him speak, obviously, but she could envision the way his fingers plucked every note on the guitar in hand and the rawness to his voice. If he was still alive to date, awake and functioning as he had once been, she was sure that particular song would be on his list of favorites to recite.

Half an hour from the FBI federal building, the enticing music was dimmed to a bare whisper. The buzz of a cell phone interrupted Beth's wayward musings, pressing reality like a sudden echoing snap.

Beth hovered her fingers above the weathered keys of her laptop computer keyboard. She occupied the back seat in van, silent and once busy with the case timeline details to keep her thoughts busy. It was difficult to do when the music started. Focusing on the case details had been important, she didn't doubt, but the music became so much more fascinating than the dreary and dreadful case.

The music centered as a singular person, whereas the case involved more than five alternating scenarios at any one given time. Admittedly, it was comforting to have one perspective to focus on rather than the entirety of the caseload.

Sebastian Flores' kidnapping took priority, and Beth could sympathize with Flores' urgency to make it so. Rais used people as a selfish means to a personal end. He used Sebastian as leverage to manipulate Flores into complying with his demands of betrayal against the team. However, despite the fact that Flores had fought tooth and nail against the demands, it was only a matter of time before her mothering instincts and panic deluded rational judgment. In short, she couldn't be trusted with information about the case. She was a liability Rais would surely exploit, and Beth could only voice her distain against the older woman's involvement for so long before the obvious caused Cooper to see the same.

Nina Surkov's hint of _one-one-eight-five Igor_ late the previous night had wielded virtually no answers in the scope of what it meant. Penelope was still combing through records and information at the office, with the assistance of James and Sabrina and Flores, but it was an agonizingly slow process. The only mention that made relative sense was a shady recount from James during his days in Rais' captivity. As Cooper suspected, it could have been another safe house scattered somewhere across the world, most likely somewhere in Russia given the similar and many references once Penelope typed the phrase into a search engine. They had no proof of such, or if Surkov was even lucid enough to be truthful at the time of when she said it.

Aside from both disdainful developments into the case, the sudden lack of CIA operatives was something to be concerned about. They disappeared, one after another, throughout the morning. Jackson was last seen on the street at just before seven, which was roughly seven hours ago. He had stayed the typical distance required for a stealthy surveillance, dressed casually in the sea of people and cars around them, but vanished from sight after receiving a twenty second phone call. Likewise, Adeline, Carson, Richard, and Desna were seen by her teammates as doing the exact same thing twenty minutes before anyone reached the gym office. The operatives didn't follow Cooper, Beth, and Prophet on their way to the FBI federal building either. It was as if they were ordered to stand down for reasons unknown.

That should have brought some relief to Beth, knowing that the CIA stepped back and allowed them some room to breathe, but the abrupt change struck her as strange.

The interior of the van had been fairly quiet, save for the music, since Prophet took the wheel and began the requested journey to an important meeting in Fickler office. The streets were buzzing with life as they always did in the city, the sun glistening off of reflective surfaces and the weather perfectly resembling a spring afternoon. Had they not been so committed to the current case, Beth would have found it relaxing to sit in a quiet park somewhere with a decent book in her lap. Weather such as this only made her more jealous of Mick and Gina's vacation in Florida.

Cooper had forced himself to rest in the passenger seat shortly after Prophet slid one of his many CD's into the player console. Sleeplessness was evident on dark untrimmed features, the events of the previous twenty four hours making him physically and mentally exhausted. He attempted to argue that sleep was unnecessary, that he had gone days without sleep before and never saw an ill effect. But Prophet gave a disbelieving glare that threatened him to continue, and Beth reasoned that he was not as young as he once was and age was cruel. After those few moments, he settled against the headrest with his hands folded in his lap and his features tight in the midst of meditation before he drifted to sleep.

He jerked awake at the sound of the cell phone, however. A quick stifled yawn cracked his jaw with a sickening pop that caused Beth and Prophet to wince slightly. Seconds later, before Beth could place her computer on the seat beside her, his hand was already retrieving his cell phone from his open jacket pocket. The tedious befuddled expression spread across his face warranted Beth's attention as he studied the sent text message.

Beth leaned forward in her seat as she closed the lid to her computer with a snap and rested her head against the shoulder of the passenger seat, eyes scaling over the message to frown in unison with him. "I expected him to send vacation photos, not gibberish." She exclaimed, seemingly to herself, as she read who sent the message.

'_Seth McCall. CIA. Olrhain ni. Teimlad drwg am hyn.'_

Mick, much to Beth's protests, only sent coded messages in Welsh or another language when in absolute danger. When he was in risk of being overheard by someone he knew he couldn't defend himself against without consequences and needed immediate assistance. If the people he had been in danger of found his phone, it was likely that they wouldn't have been able to translate Welsh without a translator. Unless they knew the language, which wouldn't have bought Mick any time at all…

Beth ignored the sudden flood of worrisome thoughts and reached for Cooper's phone, fingers grazing the slick edges as Cooper maneuvered it out of her grasp stubbornly. "I'm forwarding it to Penelope with orders for her to run it through a translator." He mumbled as his fingers operated the touch screen fluently, his tone tight with reasonable worry. "Beth, get on the phone and try to reach Mick or Gina. Prophet, how much further until we reach the federal building?"

Prophet pulled his eyes from traffic momentarily, gnawing his lip as he shrugged anxiously. "Fifteen minutes if you don't mind going over the speed limit. Why? Mick and Gina find some kind of trouble with Lucas Baines again?"

Beth sank back into her seat with an audible thud and an exaggerated sigh. She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket and began dialing Gina's number first, placing the device to her ear and counting the rings before it clicked into voicemail in less than half a minute. Gina rarely ever turned her phone off, knowing that Mick had a terrible tendency towards trouble, and even if they were caught in some kind of vacation related activity, the phone never left her side. The more times Beth dialed the phone and received nothing but the voicemail within seconds, the more she began to fear what Mick had actually written in the message.

Something was horribly wrong, and they were several states away from being able to assist them.

After the fourth attempt on Mick's phone, with no success save for the automated default voicemail, she dropped her phone on the seat beside her laptop and leaned forwards to address her teammates once again. "They're not answering. What if they're the reason why the CIA has backed off? What if the CIA did something stupid like detain them for delving into the Rais case after we were warned to stay away?" Her voice quickened at the thought, fear rattling every syllable as panic began to sink into her stomach like a crushing weight.

Legally, the CIA wouldn't have had justifiable grounds to detain Mick and Gina. If they did, by some awful and unjust means, manage to detain them legally, Fickler would have been the first to know. The only reason why Mick was allowed in the country without a green card was because Fickler vouched for him. Fickler and Cooper both took full responsibility for Mick should he get into any legal trouble. If something happened, Fickler would have contacted Cooper immediately.

Fickler did request an emergency meeting in his office with only Cooper, Prophet, and Beth. The rest of her teammates, despite their disagreements, were told to stay at the office and watch Surkov and Nikola whilst keeping a keen eye on any suspicious behavior that may have indicated an attack from Jonah. However, the director never once mentioned Mick or Gina. He, according to Cooper, only stated that they come alone and prepared, because the meeting was expected to be long and taxing.

Cooper disrupted Beth's quick and frightened prattle with a dismissive shake of his head. "I doubt it is Lucas Baines this time. The only two legible things in Mick's message are _Seth McCall_ and _CIA_. Seth was Gina's partner before she joined us. He wasn't pleased that she left him for us, seeing as had fallen in love with her and didn't have the stones to admit it, but stopped stalking her completely after a few months. We haven't heard or seen from him since I confronted him in the bar shortly after Gina joined. He was going to pick a fight with Mick because he was jealous, but I warned him to stay away or he would regret it."

Seth McCall was an entirely new subject for Beth. Gina had never mentioned her old partner by name. She had never even spoken about any of their cases together. However, she did briefly mention shortly after Beth joined that she had a stalker, and Cooper thankfully made him see how dangerous his actions were for his own safety. If he were involved with the CIA now, years later, and still carried a grudge against Gina for abandoning him, he could have posed a very deadly threat to any who stood between him and Gina.

"Wait, so Seth McCall is in the CIA now, and he's in Florida with Mick and Gina? I've got a bad feeling about this, Coop." Prophet voiced his concerns before Beth could open her mouth. His foot pressed on the gas pedal as the words rolled off his tongue, his hands maneuvering the steering wheel to weave the van around a slow compact car. He pushed the van to go faster, coming to the same unsettling conclusion as Cooper and Beth.

Fickler knew something about this.

Cooper operated his phone with an urgent fluency. His fingers danced across the touch screen as he composed a questioning message to Dean LaSalle, asking if he knew where Gina or Mick was. Two minutes later, his phone beeped with a response that drew an anxious frown to his face. "Dean LaSalle hasn't seen Mick or Gina for thirty minutes. Two federal agents picked them up and no one has seen them since. He's demanding to know what we've gotten Gina involved in."

"Fickler wouldn't send two FBI agents to pick them up." Beth mused aloud, teetering on the edge of her seat as she watched Cooper craft a reply to the general. Cooper couldn't tell him about the Rais case for obvious reasons, so a clever and believable lie was the net best option. "It has to be the CIA. Ask him for any details as to their appearances and what was said by any witnesses."

Cooper huffed a sigh as he glanced at her, nodding briskly in agreement. "Already done." He paused to give Prophet a stern eye, "Get us to Fickler's office in ten minutes."

* * *

The murmurs of varying voices ceased instantaneously. Tones of two separate languages, accents hindered by the once closed office door, insinuated to multiple people within Fickler's office. Their conversation amongst themselves sounded heated seconds before Cooper wrenched the door from its frame with an audible snap as the hinges protested his panicked violence. Words were far too rushed and deluded by the barrier to distinguish what they may have been discussing, but the subject was proven irrelevant soon enough.

Fickler had been expecting them, according to his secretary, yet they were urged to wait outside his office until he authorized their arrival. Judging by the various tones -American and British English- the meeting he had been engaged in wasn't turning as he had planned. They weren't particularly angry; Beth noted as she hovered anxiously behind her male teammates, they were _frustrated_. Something was giving them trouble, and Beth was undeniably curious as to what caused such a commotion.

Cooper, understandably, had very little patience.

Penelope had revealed, less than five minutes before, that the trace on Mick and Gina's cell phones was invalid. The phones were deactivated, and the traffic cameras for the area they were last seen in yielded no useful evidence as to their whereabouts. Apparently the two CIA operatives, which Beth sincerely doubted were involved with the CIA given Dean LaSalle and Helen Clark's eye witness accounts, picked a suspiciously convenient day to take Mick and Gina. The city lost traffic cameras in the area for ten miles until the major highway, and there was virtually no way to know where they went. Mick's coded message translated into a simple warning, stating that he had a _bad feeling _about the situation and requested a trace on his cell phone as a precaution.

Mick's _bad feelings_ about a situation were genuinely correct.

Fickler's head snapped to the doorway at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide and expression tightly surprised, and composed himself properly within seconds. He stood behind his desk and studied the three agents momentarily before he shook his head in defeat. A hand swept through the short gray pressed hair atop his head, his eyes hardening as he gave a bare sheepish and apologetic grimace to the three remaining men in the room opposite him.

His office was unusually unkempt. His desk surface was riddled with an open laptop computer and corpus amounts of open files. The desk lamp was perched precariously on one side edge and inches from meeting the carpeted floor. Even the plethora of full bookshelves seemed to have been combed through hastily as of resent. It almost appeared, given the evidence, that his office had been broken into the previous night before. The office was almost always under lock and key, and security simply refused to let anyone near that particular section of the building without prior authorization.

Fickler drew a heavy breath, as if to regain his voice, and motioned for the three agents to enter. Once the door was latched behind them, he gave another fluent introductory wave towards the three men set in three adjacent upholstered armchairs. A forced pleasant expression mounted on his features, one that Beth knew was simply for the sake of professionalism. "Agents Cooper, Simms, and Griffith, I'd like to introduce you to CIA liaison Anthony Forney, MI6 liaison Felix Walsh, and Interpol liaison David Hyland. They have been ordered to officially brief the FBI into the Rais case. Because you are my best agents, you need to hear what these men have to say. Professionalism is mandatory."

Beth mimicked her teammates for several moments, standing deathly still and profiling the entirety of the scene cautiously. The sharp accusatory warning was justified. Cooper and his team had been defiant when the situation came to their involvement with the CIA.

The CIA had been a constant thorn in their sides for months. They did everything in their capable hands to discourage their hunt for Rais, to keep them as far from the chaos as possible. Ulterior motives were always a theory, guilt and pride risked to such a level that dictated their otherwise unlawful acts. MI6, Interpol, and Scotland Yard hadn't been any better as far as cooperation, but at least they hadn't decided to spy on them to gather what little information the team had already compiled on Rais.

It could have been a trick from Rais, Beth pondered silently as she analyzed the older men. Rais could have sent them to exact another portion of his sick-minded manipulative plan. As terrifyingly paranoid as they may have sounded, Beth had little reason to trust the men as actual liaisons between agencies.

"We were told that Michael Rawson would be here as well. I specially requested to brief him personally." Felix Walsh announced his heavy English tongue loud in the midst of his disdain. The black and gray business attire was slimming against his frame, his posture tense. A days worth of dark graying stubble suggested that he had just arrived in the US, as was the thin bags beneath his eyes and the roguishness to his short dark brunette hair brushed flat with his hand. There was urgency to his voice, nearing sadness and regret at the very mention of Mick, and Beth had only heard of such a tone when speaking with a guilty victim's family member.

"Rawson won't take kindly to what we're about to tell them, Walsh." David Hyland reasoned as he rose to his feet, his own tone much more Americanized than British despite the faint tongue. His own gray suit was far less pristine. The arm cuffs were weathered as were the slacks, the knees and elbows just slightly fading, and the inexpensive scuffed shoes as well as the cheap gold wedding band around his right ring finger implied that he didn't make enough money to provide excess luxuries. His graying hair was cut an inch longer than Felix's and drastically thinner, a single two inch diagonal line across his chin was barely noticeable. He outstretched his hand to Cooper expectantly, waited a few long moments, and then withdrew with a huffed sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Right, so it's nothing personal when it comes to the cold shoulder, eh?"

Anthony Forney stood to teeter on the heels of his black leathers, weathered hands fumbled in his patched navy suit jacket pockets. A roll of stormy green eyes was directed at Cooper, annoyance on the brink of being verbalized as a frustrated glare was shot to the MI6 liaison. His lack of patience and tolerance manifested itself as a seemingly permanent scowl on graying unshaved features. An indent on his left ring finger suggested that he was married until recently, and the ugly glint in his eyes as his gaze lingered on Beth gave the impression that the divorce had been rough. He removed a small wallet from his jacket within seconds and thrust it into Cooper's hand, motioning for him to confirm his identity personally. "You have no reason to trust us. It's mutual, I'll admit. But we all want the same thing. So, despite my opinion, my bosses have told me to brief the FBI into our case. MI6 has been briefed and involved for almost three decades, as well as Interpol. It's about time the FBI catches up."

Cooper flipped the wallet open with a single hand and glanced over the ID cards, finally settling on the Langley access keycard that confirmed his identity. He passed it between Prophet and Beth to gather their agreement, and then returned it with a forced smirk. "I'm sure you understand that we're just being cautious." He paused to move against a nearby wall and away from the door, leaning against a messy bookshelf on one shoulder. "I've had a team of CIA operatives on my ass for months now. Ever since Alaska…"

"That operation took years to set in motion, and your team destroyed it and any hopes in capturing one of Rais' most deadly assassins in one swoop." Anthony intervened bitterly as he folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes defiantly. "You can _understand _that we had to intervene before you got one or more of my teammates killed."

"So yourboss sends a team of operatives to keep tabs on us because we got closer to Surkov in a few days than you did in several years. Right, because _spying _makes everything better." Beth retorted sharply with a roll of her eyes, earning a disapproving expression from Fickler. She ignored him to continue bitterly, "Is it really necessary to track us if all you want is information? Why not just pick us up in the middle of broad daylight with dozens of witnesses around and announce that you're illegally working on US soil, just like you did to Mick and Gina in Florida. Speaking of which, where the hell did you have them taken?"

Beth expected Anthony to lie. She anticipated the next line of conversation, the argument he would give to cover his own ass as well as the agency he devoted his life to. Rather than use one excuse after another, he merely looked dumbfounded by her accusation. He sincerely seemed to have no idea what she was referring to. The team of agents tailing them since Alaska drew an unpleasant retort to his lips, but the comment about Mick and Gina detained in Florida furrowed his brow in genuine confusion.

"Rawson and LaSalle were never detained by order of the CIA. It was made very clear to us that we had to stay off the grid while we were running surveillance against your team. I just got here from Langley earlier this morning and Richard's team was ordered to pull out as soon as I arrived. I'm supposed to settle things with the FBI for the CIA so we can work in harmony to catch Rais. Detaining two of your teammates seems like a piss poor start to a good alliance."

Beth's heart sank at his confession. She swallowed convulsively, her mouth suddenly dry as speechlessness stole words, the sudden familiar fearful tightness in her chest neared painful. It was the same harsh, realistic fear she had felt when Mick was shot more than a year ago. When the dangers of their cases threatened her teammates, those she recognized as family, panic always boiled to the surface.

Prophet pushed himself away from the door just as Cooper moved from the bookshelf. Beth caught his anxious frown, the apprehension in his posture as his head swept over his face. He folded his arms a moment later and addressed Anthony with a slow clarifying and anxious tone, "So the CIA never authorized Seth McCall and a Walter Thompson to talk to Mick and Gina while they're in Florida?"

Anthony shook his head adamantly, eyes wide and baffled. "As far as I know, Seth McCall and Walter Thompson don't even work with us on the Rais case. Walter retired from the CIA five years ago, and I don't even know who Seth McCall is. If he is CIA, I can make a few calls and find out…"

"Are you telling me that Rawson and LaSalle were just picked up by two men posing to be CIA operatives? And they willingly went with them?" Fickler interrupted, his voice impatient with disbelief. He gave Cooper a demanding glare and waited until the other man nodded to grab the phone on his desk and begin dialing. "If they aren't CIA operatives and Rais is behind this, they could very well be dead by now. Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?"

"There wasn't time. We just found out and we rushed here as fast as we could." Beth defended with an animated wave of her hands.

Fickler pinched the bridge of his nose as she spoke, craning his neck backwards with an exaggerated sigh as he slammed the phone down on his desk. "Bastards disabled my phone…" He mumbled to himself angrily as he dug his cell phone from the mess on his desk. Cooper began to question what he was talking about, but he clarified before more than two words were spoken. "I went to a meeting three hours ago and came back to find my office like this. Nothing's been taken and I've combed every inch in search of bugs. The security cameras were remotely deactivated, security was responding to a problem next door, and Lisa, my new secretary, took a two minute bathroom break at the time. All of this screams Rais, and if Rawson and LaSalle were taken shortly after, it means that the bastard is stepping up his plans."

Tossing the director's office in broad daylight, whilst he was still in the building, took gumption. It was a move specified by those who worked with Rais, frighteningly daring and provocative, and Beth knew evidence left by those who broke in would only be a lure. Much in the same way as the intrusion into Gina's apartment months ago.

"Either they were looking for something or they were planting something…" Prophet mused aloud, pacing between the door and a nearby bookshelf momentarily.

Fickler nodded in agreement as he dialed an unrecognized number on the phone in hand and placed it to his ear. He sank into his desk chair and propped his elbows on his desk, impatiently waiting for someone to answer. "There are no listening devices. I've already checked everywhere. If they did plant something, I won't find it until I get this place reorganized. With everything that's going on, I don't trust anyone but myself to meddle with my office."

"A wise decision, Director, but can we precede? I've only got a few days in the States before I'm expected back to London." Felix interjected as he fumbled with a fraying string on the armrest of his chair.

Fickler pushed himself to his feet once more and shifted the phone against his ear. He mumbled a quick _just a moment _before his hand covered the receiver and he rounded his desk towards the door. "No need to repeat yourselves to me. I'm going to make some calls, see if I can convince a friend of mine to use live satellite feeds to find Rawson and LaSalle. If the imposters were posing as CIA, I assume they were traveling in a standard black SUV, similar to what the CIA and FBI uses. I'll contact General LaSalle as well to get any witness details. If he thinks his daughter is in any kind of danger, he's probably already got his own investigation started."

Once Fickler was out of the room and the door was sealed behind him, Cooper rolled his desk chair beside the desk and sank into it. He composed himself well, Beth mutely acknowledged as she perched herself on the opposite edge of the desk, Prophet leaned against the window frame behind them. The portrayal of distrust and worry were still present, but he seemed to be willing to listen rather than succumb to the easier emotion of panic. "Okay, let's start with why you wanted to talk to Mick personally. Explain to us, in detail, why the MI6 gives a damn about him. Other than the obvious fact that he's been involved in something he shouldn't have been to begin with."

Felix worked his jaw, eyes darting to David and Anthony cautiously. He settled a second later by retrieving a small plastic CD case from his inner suit jacket pocket and twisting the edges against his fingers. The clear plastic was cracked in several places, but the recorded compact disk looked to be intact. A lack of lettering or tagging against its old white face meant that someone hadn't taken the time to clarify what it contained. Felix dropped his eyes to it as he spoke, his voice low and remorseful.

"I was asked to give this to Michael and Jenna Rawson, but you have to understand that this entire case is deadly to most who get involved…"

Anthony rolled his eyes once more at the Englishman's stalling tactics. "What Walsh doesn't want to admit is that the Rawson family played a big role in our investigation against Rais. Marc Rawson was the only man to ever get close to finding an actual name for Rais. He was the best operative MI6 had to offer, and because of that, he worked lead on a joint task force with the CIA and Interpol to catch Rais. The investigation is what caused his death."

Marc Rawson was an inspector, a detective, for a private investigations company in Cardiff. The company, however, had yet to confirm his identity as an actual private inspector until his death in 1991. There were no public records of his work, only short stories and mentions Mick and Jenna had spoken of during the past year. As far as the public knew, he lived in Penarth but worked in Cardiff, and whatever he had been working on was most likely the reason behind his and his wife's murder.

But it was an alias. The work in Cardiff, his affiliation with the private investigations company, his entire life in Penarth. Everything Mick had grown to believe was true about his father was a well situated lie to protect his family.

Beth struggled to wrap her mind around the information. She stammered for a response, eyes feeling psychically heavy as they narrowed skeptically at the other men. "So, does that mean that Rais ordered Marc and Katherine to be killed by that arsonist in 1991?"

Felix gnawed his lip for a moment as he nodded. "Starting from the beginning, Marc Rawson joined MI6 at the age of twenty five, in 1980. He had just gotten back from a mission overseas with the Royal Marines and was living in London for a short while before he moved back to Harlech. That's where he met Katherine Baines. She was in the middle of writing a symphony piece for a nationally credited orchestra. I was his recruiter. When I met him, he was watching Katherine perform a piano rehearsal in a lonely pub. It had amazing acoustics, I'll admit, and she was beautiful. Marc was quite smitten with her from the beginning. I made a deal with him. If he would consider joining MI6, I would convince Katherine to talk to him. He agreed, and three months later he accepted the job."

"A year into the job, he got assigned to the Rais case. A year later, in 1982, he took several months leave to marry Katherine. When he found that she was pregnant with their first son, he requested a longer temporary leave to find a suitable home for the three of them. He had gotten far in the case in just a year, and Rais was beginning to take notice. Marc made a bargain with our director to protect his wife and unborn son. They were moved to Penarth and a partial alias was created to hide his activities from anyone who may have had questions. We tried to give Marc and Katherine new names, but Marc was too prideful to abandon his heritage. Two fellow operatives by the aliases of Alis Lloyd and Owen Croft were assigned to protect Katherine and her children when Marc was working out of a field office in Cardiff."

Prophet raised his hand eagerly at the mention of Owen, confusion on his face as he interjected, "Owen Croft died in the fire. The reports stated that he was found in a doorway, where it looked like he had gotten trapped and burned alive."

"If Alis and Owen were operatives too, than what happened to Alis?" Beth added.

Anthony waved their questions away, warning them to be patient, and motioned for Felix to continue. Felix flexed the CD case in hand anxiously, biding his time for a moment longer than anyone else in the room appreciated. "That's not entirely true. The part about Owen's death, I mean. The Rawson home was burned down by an arsonist as ordered by Rais. However, it was Marc's idea to lure the man into the building and set it ablaze. The purpose was to fake Marc and Katherine's deaths, to trick Rais into thinking that his biggest threat was dead and he would leave their children in peace…"

Beth's heart leaped into her throat, her posture tense in unison with her teammates. The very idea that Mick's parents could have been alive, the very thought of telling Mick that his parents abandoned him without so much as an explanation, created uncontrollable sympathy.

Cooper obviously felt the same thing as he leaned forward to capture the Englishman's gaze. "Are they still alive?" His tone was crude and unyielding, demanding an answer immediately.

Felix shook his head violently. "No, they're not. Everyone responsible for that investigation was given new identities. Owen married some years later, but died in a hiking accident a few years ago. Alis has been traveling the world, still exploring despite our warnings that it could blow her cover. We've had to keep up her old alias as Alis Lloyd rather than just retire it; otherwise it would raise too many suspicions. Marc and Katherine were moved to the mountains in Northern Wales while their children were given to the London foster system…"

"What happened to Marc and Katherine?"

"They died in 2005. April eleventh, to be exact. Katherine was never the same after she had to leave her children. She was depressed and angry, gave up her music and only hummed to herself at times too. Their marriage had been strained for so long, and she hated herself for agreeing with Marc and abandoning her children like that. I guess she just had enough. Marc came home from work and found her in their bed. She had swallowed her entire bottle of insomnia medication with scotch and passed within half an hour. Marc waited until ten o'clock that night to call it in. By the time I got there, he had shot himself with his hunting rifle and was already dead. There was a note beside Katherine's on the kitchen table, along with this inside a recorder on a tripod. I haven't had the heart to watch it because the note said it was for Michael and Jenna." He waved the disk in hand to highlight his point and dropped his gaze to the floor, shaking his head in clear regret.

"Marc was one of the smartest people I have ever met. He was one of the youngest to ever join MI6, and his reputation was impeccable. But aside from the fact that abandoning Michael and Jenna kept them safe from Rais, he reasoned that he was giving them a fighting chance with life. Rais wouldn't stop trying to convince Marc to step away from the case unless there was an alternative…"

"And that alternative cost an entire family their lives. That was the thought behind it, right? Kill the parents to give the children a _fighting chance_? After all, Rais would _never _hurt a child." Sarcasm bled from every word as Beth interrupted. She didn't quite understand why she felt compelled to intervene with her usual quick sarcasm. It was a defensive technique, a bad habit, which only worsened the tension swallowing the room.

Marc's intentions may have been noble, but the outcome of his abandonment ruined two innocent children. Those children grew to adults with more emotional detachments and troubles than anyone else Beth had ever seen. They believed that their parents were murdered without reason, and for a brief moment Beth considered that the lie was better than the truth. She loathed the day when Mick would find the truth behind his parents' death, when he learned that they willingly abandoned them to the foster system of London to _protect _them. It wasn't something the team could keep from him, especially if the FBI was officially briefed into the case. He was going to find the information sooner or later, and Beth knew it going to be hell when the day came.

"All of us knew Marc personally." David spoke up, glancing at the others to indicate agreement. "He was a good man who adored his family. If there was any other way to protect the children, he would have done it. Rais had to believe that Marc and Katherine were dead. Their children were young and probably don't even remember a large portion of what Marc and Katherine fought about before they left. The less they knew the less likely Rais would have them killed as well."

Cooper massaged his temple as Prophet questioned, "Where were they buried? Now that you have authorization to share information with the FBI, we need to confirm your story. As well as get any previous records you have that could help us with narrowing our profile."

"Our findings have been compiled and sent to your office." Felix responded professionally. "They were buried in Swansea, near the church where they wed. Their aliases were Harold and Catrin Cadwallader."

_Harold Jernigan Cadwallader._

The man behind the name had been elusive for months. The first mention in a classified and mostly redacted CIA file gave no other information. Penelope's search yielded no results, and Beth could only recall two incidents where the name became a nagging curiosity. The picture she had seen in a newspaper article the day before, taken on the night of Marc and Katherine's supposed death and signed by an _H. Cadwallader _was explained in a heartbeat.

Marc must have been trying to reach out, to leave a minute paper trail for someone important to find. Someone like Mick. He must have known that Mick would search for his parents' murderer, and he must have deduced that it would lead back to the MI6 and CIA sooner or later. Deductive reasoning based on the fact that Mick probably inherited his deductive prowess from his father, or the fact that Mick was relentless in the face of a challenge, could have been used to justify Marc's breach of security.

Or, he simply desired to see his son one last time.

"Okay, let's just shorten things a bit." Beth announced after a few tedious minutes of silence. "Marc and Katherine Rawson faked their deaths in 1991 because Marc was getting too close to finding out who Rais really is. Their children were in danger of being used as leverage, so Marc and Katherine left them to the foster system in London and fooled the world into thinking that they were dead. But in 2005, they actually did die by suicide…"

Fickler's sudden reappearance in the room halted Beth's synopsis. He stood in the open doorway; eyes hardened and grip on his cell phone in hand whitening his knuckles. "I just got confirmation that a black falsely government issued SUV was plunged off of the Acosta Bridge in Jacksonville less than ten minutes ago. That same SUV, according to my sources, picked up Rawson and LaSalle more than forty minutes ago and were traveling out of Jacksonville when it suddenly picked up speed and ran through the railing and into the river. Emergency services are already dispatched, but we have no idea if Rawson and LaSalle are still alive. If they are, I hope to God they can swim."

* * *

Note- Hello people! I'm back!  
To start with, kudos to anyone who knows what Chevelle song the beginning lyrics belong to. I've been obsessed with their music for about two weeks now and it has given me a lot of new ideas. As for that particular song, it has a purpose later in the storyline. You'll see…  
Anyways, this chapter is pretty self explanatory. The big reveal about Mick's parents took a twist with leaps and bounds, in my opinion. As promised, they are most certainly dead. Just not in the way that was previously assumed. The breach into Fickler's office holds to typical Rais intimidation methods, and has a reason. There is something left behind that hasn't been found yet, and when Fickler does find it, it'll be quite interesting. Lastly, the ending plays directly into the next chapter. The next chapter will be exciting, because Mick and Gina can never go a single day without something exciting happening in their life.  
I think that covers everything for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	20. Just A Reaction

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 20 Just A Reaction

The relationship between Mick and I generally operated by two synchronized philosophies. An unexplainable knack for explicit trust solely between us, and an equally unfathomable ability to read each other's intentions with the slightest of looks. A glint in our eyes, a brief shift in posture, even a barely noticeable tension of facial features, spoke more than any vocalized words or warnings. Most would dismiss them, ignore them as something inconsequential, but we both knew better. We _knew_ each other well enough to understand that the minor changes indicated something potentially dangerous. An instinct, unspoken between us, almost seemed infectious. Rationally speaking, the presence of both philosophies drew upon the very idealistic definitions of a partnership. It meant that Mick and I were, in any psychological aspect, perfect for each other.

Partnership…solely in a professional context…

Said instincts did not require verbalization. It didn't need to be spoken, acknowledged aloud, or even brought to attention. The highlight of our symbiotic relationship was wordless by definition. Our conversations were spoken with eye contact alone, with the knowledge of each other and our slight poker tells in mind. Mick knew when I felt uncomfortable with a situation, when that nagging instinctive voice in the back of my mind screamed for an immediate escape, by the change in posture and tight facial expression. Likewise, I understood when he was plotting a solution, alternate escape routes and outcomes to the situation at hand, by the rigid attentiveness to his dark eyes.

In any other situation or place, I would have simply allowed Mick to carry through with one of his plans. He could formulate solutions to the most deadly situation with minimum cost of life in mere seconds. The plans were rarely ever inaccurate to any degree, and his persistent instinct to survive and protect made him ruthlessly strive for perfection. I trusted him to save both of us when faced with danger, to always know what to do, and he was often able to comply.

However, we were in a federally issued SUV with two supposed CIA operatives, heading towards their _safe house _just outside of Jacksonville where they would enlighten us on their findings into the Rais case, with none other than my previous partner in the passenger seat, and I could not find any reason to rely on Mick's protective instincts alone for comfort.

It was unclear as to where we were headed exactly. The exterior windows were tinted, nothing particularly enlightening that would point us to any answers on both the inside and out, but the interior allowed enough brilliant mid-day sun to reflect off the passing road signs. Thirty minutes of silence tempted my attention to our passing locations. The Acosta Bridge fed into a main city highway, although recent construction work had left it bare of other vehicles at the moment, which then led into highway ninety-five heading south. The supposed CIA _safe house_ was located no more than an hour out of Southeast Jacksonville city limits, just off highway ninety-five. The problem with their undisclosed directions was that it did not make very much logical sense.

The CIA wouldn't pick a random building to set up their operations. There were protocols and procedures, although they seemed to be throwing both to the wind as of late, and the idea that they were holed in some old abandoned building with classified states secrets was difficult to believe. Moreover, than the possibility that the CIA had seen the light, sort to speak, and realized that the FBI had to be read into the Rais case as well. Interagency cooperation, especially between agencies akin to the CIA and FBI, was the work of legends. The fact was that the CIA and FBI did not get along, the CIA essentially being their own entity and therefore a lone wolf, and I did not trust them with anything.

There was a lie beneath Seth and Walter's intentions, composed and simplistic, yet just beneath the surface of truth, and both Mick and I knew it.

Mick had the brilliant idea to try to catch them in the lie, to draw it to the surface by causing them to slip on their facts in some manner. He sat beside me in the back seat behind the driver's seat, his cell phone twirling in his fingers against his knee, posture rigid as analytical and cautious eyes continued to calculate his options. A text message was sent to Cooper just minutes before, something akin to a warning written in Welsh for security and safety purposes typed within a single minute with one hand. For reasons we had yet to understand, cell phone coverage decreased to a single inconsistent bar once the van passed onto the Acosta Bridge.

We knew that if Seth and Walter were dangerous in some fashion, if this was some creative and ballsy move from Rais and Jonah, it was only a matter of time before one of them slipped. The use of our cell phones to call for assistance was probably going to be terminated when the moment came. Neither of us had deemed it necessary to carry our guns, but the sheathed knives concealed in our boots were just as effective in the right hands.

I had seen Mick use his knife to disable a man twice his size in less than thirty seconds once before. If Seth or Walter tried anything threatening towards us, neither of them would last very long against his knife skills.

While Walter fixed his attention on the road ahead, Seth carried on with his aggravated glare in the rear view mirror directed towards us. He was jealous, infuriated although masked well, at the very insinuation that Mick and I were anything more than teammates. His previous obsession with me had seemed to die in the slightest with age, but I didn't fail to notice the blaze in his eyes when Mick brushed his hand over mine in a usual portrayal of calmness. It was a small token to imply that things were okay, that he had a plan to keep us safe, and the action seemed to set Seth into a boiling rage.

Judging by the faint confident smirk on Mick's face, he was going to use that to his own advantage.

I had just finished constructing a message to my father on my cell phone when Mick broke the silence that had enveloped us. The phone had the same minimum reception as I ran my index finger against the touch screen, quickly dropping the devise into my purse between Mick and I once the message was sent, and I knew it would be several minutes until my father received it.

My father had a reputation for the extreme when the subject came to family. More than likely, he had already taken measures to find who Seth and Walter were and why they had any interest in us. He probably wouldn't get very far if they were actual CIA operatives because their identities were concealed for security purposes. Nevertheless, my father had spent years in the government and a lifetime as a soldier, both of which made him formidable. If Mick's warning didn't get to Cooper before something drastic happened, I knew my father would lead the search in a heartbeat, and he wouldn't stop until we were found.

"Cooper's got the same deal in DC, eh?" Mick questioned with a brief glance at the approaching Acosta Bridge ahead. The van bounced slightly as it crossed onto the supported concrete, the glimmering water of the vast river temporarily blinding. Vehicles were traveling slower than our own, construction signs and roadwork warnings spread from one end to the next against the lengthy concrete railing.

Walter nodded without removing his eyes from the road and replied, "Yes, I suspect he is. Your teammates should be briefed into the case within the hour." Despite our assumptions that Seth and Walter were being untruthful about their intentions, Walter was actually being honest. Or he was simply one hell of a convincing liar. One thing was for certain, he believed his own words to be true.

The best lies were always derived from the truth.

"So you work with Richard's team? With Jackson, Adeline, Carson, and Desna?" Mick pressed by giving them some details and gauging their reactions.

Seth was the contrary tell. He was younger than Walter, definitely less experienced in the concept of covert operational tactics, and while his knowledge of _how _to operate in situations that required believable lies were textbook, he could not fool us entirely. There was a poker tell to his reactions, a bare glint of confusion at the mention of Desna's name that he could not disguise well enough. It was hidden beneath a forceful nonchalant shrug and an agreeing nod, but I knew by the stall of Mick's fingers against his cell phone in his lap that he saw it too.

Desna was the alias one member of the CIA team stationed in Alaska used months ago. He fooled an entire station of officers and detectives in North Pole into believing that he was a detective for years before his cover was ruined. Our team had fallen for his ruse too, and that was no small venture. If Seth and Walter were working for the CIA, they would have known about Desna's alias. They would have worked together, considering Walter supposedly led the unit in charge of hunting Rais, and everything involving the CIA in Alaska and Desna's alias would have been common knowledge between them.

Seth should not have been confused.

We needed solid proof of our suspicions before we could act justifiably. Somehow we had to prove that they were lying, that this was a trick, and it had to be done covertly. They couldn't know that we suspected something was wrong. If they were working for Rais, and this was a trap that we had stepped into, the worst thing we could do at the moment was alert them to our suspicions. We had to stay calm and focused, which was difficult to accomplish when the mere thought of Seth and Walter luring us into the hands of Rais or Jonah drew panic to the forefront of rational thought.

A ruse had lured us into the van. The promise of answers towards the bastard who destroyed Liam Holmes and caused so much chaos over the past decade was used to fool us. Although, admittedly, I knew there was something terribly wrong with the scenario from the beginning. I only followed because leaving them with Mick alone was not an option. Someone would get hurt, and I couldn't take chances that the someone would be Mick.

Another ruse, a better lie than Seth or Walter would ever create, had to be our saving grace.

"You know, once I get reception again I'll have to cancel our dinner reservations." I turned to Mick as I spoke casually, silently hoping he read between the lines easily enough and would play into the ploy seamlessly. The concept was to entice Seth into slipping. His jealousy was his weakness, the one thing we could use against him, and I planned to do just that. If I could lure him into reacting against us out of jealousy, Walter would react to maintain their covers and it would snowball downhill for them within minutes.

Mick maintained a carefully unreadable posture as he studied me for a fractured moment. It was just long enough to read my intentions, to understand what I had planned. He nodded quickly once realization sank in, a familiar smirk plastered against his features and a typical flirting gleam in his eyes, and then he edged closer to me by a few inches until his seat belt restricted him. "Well, lucky for you darlin', I know this wonderful fish and chips place on the beach. If we get back in time, we may even have time for a swim." A suggestive wag of his eyebrows highlighted his performance, his Welsh accent thickening in a manner he only used when trying to lure a woman into bed with him.

He was playing it a bit too thick…

I fought against the creeping blush and forced a toothy grin as I leaned towards him. "There are people in the car with us." I whispered, purposefully loud enough to be heard, with a glare at Seth and Walter.

Seth watched us from the rearview, his eyes narrowed and his face tight in pure hatred. He ground his teeth and kept his hands clenched in his lap until his knuckles whitened. Our ploy was working to our favor, and neither him nor Walter saw it for what it truly was. Walter's warning hiss fell to deaf ears as Seth ignored him. A few minutes of over extravagant flirting between Mick and I would push him to react, and while it was bound to turn ugly within seconds, it was the only thing I could think of that would gather the desired confirmation.

Mick threw a careless look towards Seth and inched towards me again, pulling at his seat belt to stretch an arm on the back of the seat behind my head. "You afraid their going to report us to Fickler?"

"Well, we've kept it a secret for a while now, and I don't think fate likes us sometimes." An absolute lie was necessary to sell the entire performance. In truth, Mick and I had been dancing around the very concept of a _relationship_ for a very long time but it hadn't developed into something as complex as what we were suggesting aloud. Seth and Walter didn't necessarily know that, judging by their expressions, which worked for us.

"True, darlin', but these blokes are CIA. They could tell Fickler anything about us and without proof, there's not a damned thing they can do about it."

"If that's the case, then they wouldn't be able to report this."

One last push for Seth, a single action he perceived as heinously inexcusable, something he simply couldn't ignore as it shattered his previous hopes that I would still, ridiculously so, crawl back to him. We needed something unpredictable to throw Seth into a frenzy, something entirely new to all of us to ensure that the reactions were genuine and believable.

I paused for a brief hesitant second, portraying my intention to Mick wordlessly, waiting for acceptance and acknowledgement that this was simply part of the plan. It didn't necessarily mean anything. We needed a way to shove Seth off of the metaphorical ledge, and this was the best and fastest option.

Two seconds before the _fake_ kiss, my hand snaked behind Mick's neck to give the illusion of dominance in our _fake _relationship when in actuality I silently pleaded for him to take the lead because I had never _fake kissed _anyone before, the unmistakable click of a gun safety rang throughout the van cabin. In those coupled seconds, when I made the decision to accelerate our little white lie, the butterflies in my stomach were threatening to eat me alive. Nervousness made the situation and stunt seem too awkward, more than it already was, and I was uncertain of how to react. How the very idea would be perceived by Mick, what it might lead to later, if it was slightly too over the top for our purposes; there were no easy answers.

In spite of the unsteady gun aimed inches from Mick's head, he followed through with the plan flawlessly. The kiss was breathtaking, unlike anything I had ever experienced, and absolutely intoxicating. He wasn't prying or demanding, even though he led the ten seconds from start to finish, almost as if he was reluctant to push his boundaries. Even during our white lie, he was still a gentleman towards me. It was casual yet blissful, illustrating the point towards us that it was simply an act, but a damned good act nonetheless. When he pulled away to glare at Seth's shaking gun inches from his head, I hesitated before removing my hand from his neck.

At that moment, I realized why so many women fell over themselves just to spend one night with the Welshman.

"Get the hell away from her." Seth hissed, enraged, as his finger brushed the trigger of his gun. His voice shook with raw tension, an internal war debating what was right and what was impulsive written on pained features. He was twisted in his seat to face us, his seat belt removed and his knees in his seat. Walter's orders to put the gun away were ignored completely as he tried to breath through the devouring rage and looked to me with large pleading eyes. "How could you do this again?"

"You are delusional if you think there was ever a chance between us." I retorted bitterly, eyeing the gun in hand with concern and fear.

"So you leave me and then hook us with this bastard? Do you even know what he's got himself involved? How dangerous he is?"

"Seth, sit your ass down now! If I have to stop this van in the middle of the highway, you can walk back to base alone. Besides, he wants them alive." Walter ground out, trying to maneuver the van around a large covered dump truck.

_He_. Not _they _or any other word that would have signified a group, or the fact that Walter was supposed to be the leader in their hunt for Rais at the CIA. It wasn't concrete evidence or confirmation that they were working for Rais, but it did contradict the very idea that they were authentic.

"I'm doing this to protect you, Gina…" Seth steadied his grip on his gun, aiming for a clear and deadly headshot, and I panicked as soon as I saw the murderous gleam in his eyes.

I unbuckled my seat belt and jumped on Mick, forcing him to hunker against the door as I placed myself between him and the gun. The position was uncomfortable for both, with the back of my knees against the seat edge between his legs and almost in his lap. If we hadn't been in such peril, the ramifications and innuendos leaving his mouth would warrant my head against a wall repeatedly. Mick tried to throw me off, tried to gain the upper hand to protect me rather the opposite, but I did everything in my power to ensure that Seth couldn't shoot him without shooting me.

The probability of Seth actually shooting me was low, but not impossible.

"You'll have to kill me first, if you plan to shoot him." I seethed defiantly, a challenging stare and a warning portraying just how serious I was.

Seth refused to lower the gun. His expression wavered between hurtful and furious, both battling for dominance, with uncertainty thrown into the mix. It was dangerous, _he _was dangerous, and the more seconds that passed with the gun unyielding in his grip, the more panic began to skew rationality.

The goal was to confirm without a shadow of doubt that Seth and Walter weren't who they claimed to be. Unfortunately it seemed to have backfired and there was virtually nothing stopping Seth from shooting both of us. Walter's orders held no merit, rational common sense seemed to have left Seth in the midst of his delusional jealousy, and Mick and I only had knives to counter Seth's gun. We were defenseless, because every scenario that came to mind in those flash of seconds involved someone taking a bullet in the struggle for control.

"Gina, love, it's a bit difficult to breath with your elbow in my ribs…" Mick whispered, voice strained expressively as he shifted beneath me. I hadn't realized that in my haste to protect him, I had accidentally braced myself against him with an elbow tucked just below his ribcage. As soon as it was removed with a sheepish apologetic look, he pushed me aside with surprising force and leaped for the gun. It was unclear as to when he unbuckled his seat belt, but it was thrown beside him with an echoing snap as the metal buckle hit the door.

The moments that followed were too chaotic to capture appropriate detail. One moment Mick and Seth were fighting for leverage of the gun, wrestling ruthlessly and throwing desperately hard knuckle-breaking punches, blood gushing from their noses and bruises beginning to blossom, directing the gun in whichever direction was easiest to gain an advantage. The next moment Walter was slumped over the steering wheel as the horn blared deafeningly and his foot a dead weight on the accelerator. In the struggle for the gun, Seth had fired two bullets. The first embedded itself into the windshield just below the rearview mirror, causing the glass to split in a web of cracks that spanned the entire surface. It hadn't even been within a foot of hitting Walter, so I had no idea why he appeared suddenly unconscious at the wheel.

But the second drew my attention more than the first because it had come into contact with Mick. His muffled yelp of pain and surprise captured my eyes just in time to see Seth forcing the gun into his left shoulder, dragging it down to become level with his heart, but a swift dislocating twist of his wrist moved the gun barrel to the left farther than intended just as the shot was fired. I watched Mick stiffen as the bullet sliced through his bicep inches below his shoulder and then plummet into the backseat behind him, eyes wide and scared as I reached for my knife concealed in my boot. Close contact burns would cauterize the wound and obstruct excess blood loss, but the ribbons of bright crimson seeping through the jagged bullet hole in his jacket sleeve was still worrisome.

As the van began to veer towards the concrete railing, desperation closed around us like a vice. Mick and Seth were too occupied with trying to obtain the gun to see how dangerously close to the edge of the bridge the van was becoming, or how much speed the van had actually gained. The meter was steadily rising closer to the edge with the seconds, and if it reached top speed and rammed into the concrete railing like I feared, there would be no stopping it from teetering into the river below.

I had to do something creative before someone was shot again or we were killed by the impact with the river.

Drawing a panicked breath, holding it for as long as possible, I pushed myself to the edge of my seat and drove the blade of my knife into Seth's nearest outstretched forearm just below the elbow. He released his hold on the gun long enough for Mick to swipe it from his grip, large disbelieving eyes trained on me as if he were asking how I could do such a thing, and a chocked gasp of pain slipped from his throat as he reached for the hilt of the knife with his opposite hand.

Mick had the bullets removed along with the firing pin in less than five seconds. He chucked the pieces behind the seat carelessly and then snatched the handle of my knife, yanking it out and presenting it back to me with a well practiced flip of his wrist. There was no time to thank him, or say anything for that matter, because Seth had dared to move Walter in hopes to stabilize the van.

Unfortunately, all he accomplished was causing the steering wheel to jerk towards the railing just as the speedometer reached its limit.

The impact with the concrete railing sent us forward before anyone could breath. I braced myself on the back of the passenger seat as best I could, silently cursing myself for abandoning my seatbelt, but felt myself slipping to the floor regardless of my efforts. Mick's arms wrapped my stomach in an instant, pulling me close and mounted to the seat as he used his weight to keep me from falling through the shattered windshield. Splintering tinted glass poured around us, the sound drowned by the squeal of tires and the blare of car horns.

Somehow the impact with the concrete had left Mick and I unscathed. Seth was last seen, for a minute second before his head impacted the dash, fussing with his seatbelt one-handed in a desperate attempt to save himself. He hadn't been lucky, but Mick and I, for once in our entire career together, seemed unharmed by the immediate crash.

Until the van tipped into the river, sending us off the seat and crashing into the back of the front seats as the cold darkened river water rushed up to meet us.

* * *

One of the most memorable stories of my childhood centered on swimming lessons my father gave me when we lived in Virginia for six months at the age of eight. At the time I had argued with him because I was afraid. The public indoor pool was too long and seemed to be as deep as the ocean itself, the water chilly and intimidating as I stood on the ledge, shaking in my duck yellow arm floaties and my new lavender bathing suit. It was after school hours, and while the pool was usually crammed in the summer months, it was strangely sparse of people. Few others enjoying the pool threw curious glares in our direction as my father situated Ariel in a temporarily floating child's giraffe boat near the ledge.

I was forced into the pool, despite my screams and kicking, when my father grabbed me under the arms and practically threw me in. The floatation devices around my arms didn't seem to work. I drifted beneath the surface of the water, fighting for breath that didn't come, panic consuming like a vice around my chest. For the briefest of moments, I thought I was drowning. No amount of scrambling and clawing at the water brought me to the surface, and the more I fought against it, the more water I inadvertently inhaled.

My father pulled me to the surface before any physical damage was done, keeping me close to his bare chest, as I sputtered away the excess water from my lungs and coughed violently, blinking the stinging water from my eyes. The bottom of the pool, in that particular area, was no deeper than four or five feet, but I could have still drowned. He waited several minutes until I calmed myself and could breath again, and then pushed me away at arms length so I floated easily and fixed me with a stern but instruction expression.

"_Gina, you just learned the first rule of swimming. If you panic, you will drown. I'm not going to teach you how to swim a marathon or fight against a raging river today. But I am going to start by teaching you how to float. If you can keep your head above water, you'll be fine."_

My father's intentions behind the blunt swimming lessons were never fully appreciated until I needed them to be. Until the prospect of death at the unseen hands of darkened frigid river water, panic-stricken and disoriented as I may have been, wrapped itself around rational thought just as tight as the vice grip on aching lungs, I didn't realize that my father's abstract methods of teaching survival tactics were the only thing that would save me.

Calmness, _composure_, was unobtainable in the confines of panic. My father's advice to remain relaxed, loose yet in control, simply didn't work in my favor.

The sudden impact of the van against the chilled river surface felt worse than the crash into the concrete bridge railing. With the impact of concrete and metal, there was a second of availability towards preparation. Mick and I steeled ourselves; Mick threw himself on top of me protectively, and I willingly flatted into the back seat as much as humanly possible. But the crash into the river hurt worse than the concrete. The van plunged downwards and pulled us with it. Regardless of our attempts to latch onto the backseat and each other, we tumbled into the front seats until I could feel Mick slam into the dash between Walter and Seth.

He became as limp as the supposed CIA operatives within seconds, and I was left alone in the plummeting darkness with cascading murky river water. I clung to the front of Mick's jacket with a single fist, fingers tightened as the water flooded into the van and chased away breathable oxygen, and tried to gather some sense of direction as the van evened itself. In the struggle to oppose gravity as we were falling, I distinctly remembered groping for a steady surface out of instinct and encountering a rather large chunk of windshield glass with my left hand. As dizzy as I was from the tumbling, I could still feel the unbearable sting of the glass embedded far too deep in the center of my palm.

I couldn't remove the glass, and not for reasons that would have made any logical sense. At the last inch of flooding water, I drew a final breath as deep as my lungs would allow and held it. In the past I could hold my breath for no more than two minutes. I ached for days afterwards and loathed the unavoidable tightness in my chest as my lungs were deprived of needed air, but two minutes were worth the wait if it meant safety.

The problem, what truly sank panic into the depths of my soul and obscured rationality, was the fact that I was stuck.

As soon as I tried to kick my feet in a futile attempt to swim forwards an inch, I felt a sudden blaze of pain in my left ankle. The waters were too murky to see properly, but just enough sunlight scattered in the shifting surface outside the van illuminated the very real horror. My foot was caught in the release lever beneath the backseat, twisted painfully as the metal latched itself into a fresh hole in my jean pant leg and disappeared into the rim of my boot. I craned my neck to stare at it, pulling ungracefully in spite of the pain of a newly twisted ankle, and choked on a gasp when it refused to budge.

If I couldn't get the latch our of my jeans or boot, I couldn't swim to the surface of the river with Mick. I could have drowned within minutes, Mick could have drowned. That terrifying realization made my actions desperate.

My knife had vanished during the crash. If I found it, I could have sliced through my jeans connecting to the seat lever and my boot laces. I could have freed myself in under a minute. But panic skewed everything save for the desperation to escape. Mick had a knife in his boot just as I had, yet I didn't think to reach for it. Instead I continued to jerk at the lever with my foot, twisting in different frantic directions in hopes to dislodge it.

The frantic jarring motions roused Mick immediately. He shifted in my grip, rigid as he floated, and I felt his hands grasp my shoulders as he pushed me towards the backseat roughly. A moment later he was beside me, inches from the seat, with his combat knife in hand and a determined expression on barely lit features. There was a small trail of blood sifting through the water from the bullet wound in his bicep and a new unseen gash in the back of his hairline, between the air bubbles that slipped through our noses, that captured my attention. He ignored it completely, not even wincing, as he folded himself inwards until an arm slipped beneath the seat with his knife. Normally he would have been much more gentle with a knife so close to my skin. But I didn't protest as I felt the razor sharp blade slice through the denim attached to the lever and knick at my skin.

He sheathed it back into his boot with seconds and grasped my own boot beneath the seat. I hadn't realized that he had cut through the laces until he pulled my foot clear of the obstructing shoe. Mick returned to face me and reached for my hand, but I pulled it away before his fingers could brush against the glass. There wasn't time to worry about the injury. It wasn't life threatening, and I wasn't bleeding too severely because the glass appeared to be sealing the wound. We had to get out of the van and to the surface before we worried about any injuries.

Mick wouldn't allow the action more than once. He all but snarled in frustration and grasped my wrist before I could defy him again. A quick once-over was given as he shook his head, and then released me to grasp my opposite hand in a grip so tight that I feared he would leave bruises. He jabbed his other hand to the shattered windshield opening and yanked my arm violently to highlight his intentions.

I merely floated for a long moment, blinking past the water burning my eyes as I looked between him and Seth indecisively.

We couldn't _leave _Seth to drown in the river. He betrayed his country, tangled himself into an organization in a way that Mick and I hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of, but we couldn't allow him to die. Or rather, I couldn't. Mick obviously had no problem with leaving Seth to drown in the river. His persistence to drag me from the van and his lack of tried assistance towards Seth and Walter proved that he wasn't in the mood to take prisoners today. If Rais or Jonah sent Walter and Seth to lure us into a trap of some kind, Mick had no complaints about watching both of them drown.

But I would have felt some form of regret, because once upon a time, I _knew _Seth. We were friends, partners, and while I thought his selfish actions were inexcusable, I couldn't bring myself to feel the same apathy towards him as Mick did.

Lack of proper oxygen was beginning to tighten my chest. It hadn't reached the stage classified as suffocating yet, but it was only a matter of sixty more seconds. That was plenty of time to swim to the surface with Mick and flag down someone from the bridge or river bank that could have helped us to dry land.

However, I hesitated to follow Mick as I uncurled my fingers from his hand and jerked myself free. He groped for me again, desperation growing more transparent in his abnormal roughness towards me. I swam past him, squirming in the tight space to glide through the water and to the front of the van between Walter and Seth, and stopped beside Seth.

The cause of the crash stemmed from a long black and red carbon arrow. It protruded from Walter's chest, struck straight through his heart and staining his suit. Walter was dead as soon as the arrow tip pierced his heart.

_Lucas Baines_. The black and red carbon arrows were his signature. How and why he would shoot Walter to cause the van to crash were unanswerable.

The seatbelt Seth had been fumbling with moments before the crash was twisted and wrapped around his right wrist wedged against the door. Window glass sank through the water around him, littering the dash and floor and even his clothing like tiny glistening spikes reflected by the fluctuating rays of sunlight. Seth was hunched face-first indo the dash. His face rested against the surface, the airbags hadn't deployed for reasons I didn't give thought to, and the shreds of blood mixed into the dirty water until they vanished.

I watched him attentively, waiting just long enough to see the exhale of captured air hovering in the water from the corner of his mouth, and then began untangling his hand from the seatbelt. Mick stopped me within seconds with a stern and questioning expression. I ignored the mute question and continued, the sudden ache in my lungs urging me to quicken my already unsteady hands.

He was free of the belt in under five seconds. I struggled to pull him up from the seat and glared at Mick in a silent plea for his assistance. Seth's legs were pinned slightly beneath the dash, not enough to incite injury but enough to be troublesome. I couldn't move him without help, and Mick was metaphorically dragging his feet to do anything that may have saved Seth from certain death. My frantic actions and the fact that both Mick and I were running out of air must have been the only incentives behind his decision to help me.

Mick's preferred method was…_unexpected._

I felt as though I had jumped out of my skin when Mick pried Seth's face from the dash aggressively and balled his fist. He struck the other man in the cheek with as much force as he could whilst under water, taking momentary satisfaction in the spur of blood exhaled and the sudden startled awareness.

Seth blinked lazily, unfocused eyes scanned the surrounding area for indications as to where we were, and then he began to push himself out of the seat. His movements were unsteady and the rising panic in his tight features suggested that he couldn't hold his breath for as long as Mick and I could. Our assistance was refused when first offered, but he abandoned pride and stubbornness when he couldn't move his left arm more than a few inches from his ribs. We eased him towards the windshield and motioned for him to use the hood of the van to kick off for a faster swim.

Mick shoved me out of the windshield opening first. He was blunt and unyielding about the subject, and I wasn't given time to protest before he began pulling Seth by the collar of his jacket behind him.

I kicked with long fluid strokes, which was a challenge considering the weight difference with one missing boot, and cupped my hands to gain more traction. Exertion of energy seeped away the air I had stowed in my lungs, and the burning sensation began to sink in its place as I pushed myself to go faster. Clawing at the water wouldn't have helped. It was tempting because it was instinct, because panic made it seem like a brilliant idea, but the swimming lessons my father had given me when I was young came to mind in an instant.

Panic leads to drowning. Downing leads to death. Your head has to stay above water, both physically and psychologically.

The bright April afternoon sunlight grew closer as I approached the surface. Sounds were muddled through the haze, or the water clogging my ears. There were bound to be sirens in the distance. People who saw the van tumble into the rive would have undoubtedly stopped and tried to call for assistance. There were traffic cameras on the bridge too, so local authorities would have been notified immediately. But I didn't _hear _any of the expected commotion. The only things my ears understood was the rapid drum of my heartbeat and the crushing flow of the river around us.

I didn't look down at Mick and Seth because I knew they were close. If they weren't, if Seth did something stupid and stopped them, I was close enough to the surface to regain my breath and then dive back down to intervene. Perhaps that was selfish, but I couldn't bring myself to care about anything other than air. I needed to break the surface of the river, to breath for the first time in two minutes.

Mick gloated about being an excellent swimmer. Surely he could hold his breath for longer than two minutes…

I broke the surface faster than anticipated. My arms flailed and my feet continued to paddle aimlessly. Floating in the easy current was simply a matter of keeping myself moving, but not in a manner that wore me into exhaustion more than I already had. Disturbed water rose up to greet me in the face and I sputtered, gulping much appreciated oxygen and spitting away the tangy taste of river water. I wiped my soggy hair from my eyes hurriedly and squinted at the new invasion of blinding sunlight shimmering against the surface. The new intake of oxygen seemed to clear my head and made me hyper attentive to my surroundings for the longest moments of my life.

An abrupt series of splashes no more than five feet to my right announced Mick and Seth. They spat against the intrusive rush of distasteful water and gasped for air in the same fashion as I had, paddling to stay afloat and finally settling to distance themselves. Now that they were in the sunlight, I could see the rather ugly seeping wound above Seth's right eye and a hint of bright crimson trailing down the back of Mick's neck. Neither wounds appeared to be fatal, but they would require attention soon. Their hair was plastered against their heads, Mick's seemingly coal black dripping into his eyes but ignored for the time being, and the exhaustion from their fighting and swimming had left them visibly weary.

I swam to Mick as fast as tender limbs allowed, grinning because I honestly had a moment of doubt that we wouldn't be able to survive such a deadly crash, and pulled him close by the rim of his shirt. He hissed as the motion jostled the bullet wound in his arm but didn't resist. A relieved smirk fell on flushed features as I wrapped my arms around his neck, chocking on a laugh that came across as a deluded sob.

There had been many deadly situations over the past few years that Mick and I had been able to come back from at the last possible second, but surviving a speeding van that crashed into a river was an entirely new kind of horror.

"See, told ya' I'm a good swimmer darling." Mick breathed against my ear. The amusement in his thickened accent spoke of his amazement to the situation. Apparently he didn't believe we were going to live either, and now that we had, he was just as happy to be alive as I was. He ran his hands along my arms, as if searching for injury, and questioned tiredly, "Nothing's broken?"

I pulled away from him to shrug. Adrenaline kept me moving, kept me from drowning a horrible death, but it also disguised pain. The impulse still coursing through my veins was beginning to ebb away, and the only worrisome pain that didn't include aches and bruises from the crash involved the rather large seeping wound in my hand and a steady throb in my ankle. I was fairly certain it wasn't broken, but it was most definitely sprained. It didn't occur to me until I set my eyes upon my hand that the glass was missing. The wound was still bleeding but not terribly so and it burned with the contact of the river water. More than likely, it dislodged itself whilst I was swimming for the surface and the adrenaline distracted me from noticing.

"Not that I can tell." I replied a bit too quickly as I drew my bloodied hand from the water to flex my fingers. A grimace crossed my face at the stabbing pain, and Mick mimicked it as he grasped my wrist gently.

"That hurts a bit, eh?" I would have rolled my eyes at his rhetorical question, but couldn't find a way to do so. He released my wrist and began to unbutton his soaked button down shirt. The jacket was wiggled out of and handed to me to momentarily hold while he shed his outer shirt off carefully. A thin dark tee shirt clung to his skin, but my eyes fell to the wound in his bicep before he replaced his jacket. True enough, close contact from the gun had cauterized the wound, but it would still require stitches and a thorough cleaning. Once his jacket was back in place, unzipped for the time being, he twisted the button shirt into a makeshift bandage and grasped my wrist with careful fingers.

I looked away as he tied the material overtop of the wound. Not because I was squeamish about blood, I had seen far too much of it throughout the years, but because something felt very _wrong _again. I had been solely focused on Mick and breathing for a single minute, which had been too long. What I failed to notice in my haste was a contrasting lack of a particular voice in the abundance of sound around us.

Sirens were heard ringing in the distance and people on the bridge were shouting something neither Mick nor I understood from our distance. But it was the lack of Seth's comments at our close proximity that truly warranted caution.

Seth was jealous. He hated Mick because he assumed, and Mick and I did nothing to change his opinion, that I had chosen Mick over him. Technically, he wasn't wrong. I almost expected Seth to open his mouth with some disgusted comment towards Mick, something that would have made Mick react so they would fight again, but he had gone completely silent.

When I caught sight of him again, he was swimming as fast as his battered body could towards the river bank, but I made no motions to stop him. There would be another time to catch him, another occasion where he popped out of nowhere and reek havoc in the name of _orders _for us to clean up. We still had questions as to who sent him exactly and what their plans were, why Lucas Baines would shoot Walter and essentially save our lives.

That could wait, at least until we were on dry land again.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! I'm back people!  
As promised, this is a very intense chapter. There's quite a bit that adds to the main mystery, such as who Walter and Seth were working for and what their orders were, as well as why and how Lucas Baines would kill Walter and cause the van to crash. But there's also a little treat for Mick/Gina fans such as myself. Their _fake kiss _is a big part of the overall story, and I have so many plans to expand things using that as a starting point. Seth will show up again later, and next time things won't end so well for Mick and Gina.  
I think that's all for now. Too many more spoilers will ruin the story. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far. Leave another review if you've got the time. Your encouragement is always appreciated.


	21. I'll Let You Live

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 21 I'll Let You Live

In the crux of an exceedingly lethal situation, Mick's temperament for acute observations proved invaluable. Years wasted in the depths of self-inflicted hell seemed to perfect the uncanny skill. Survival was always a paramount instinct, woven in tandem with the hyperactive attentiveness, and threatened to suffocate him when the instinct grappled for purchase.

He abandoned the prospect of normalcy, of finding a suitable method to cope with the instinct, more than a decade ago. Now, when the instinct clouded every other conscience decision that wasn't related to survival, he allowed it to run its course.

The river spanned for miles, the current steady and sluggish as the repercussions from their unplanned disturbance drifted to the pitch black depths beneath him. Waves settled and allowed him and Gina to drift peacefully for some minutes, regaining their composure and wits, before Mick suggested that they hurry for shore. Sunlight glistened against the surface, sparkling in the gentle current, blinding his already sore eyes. Reflections were difficult to track back to the source, whether it be the flashes of sunlight bouncing off of cars and buildings lined on dry land or the mere fact that he was internally struggling to keep his head above water.

Voices and sirens echoed around them. People, pedestrians who had witnessed the crash and stopped their own vehicles in a vain attempt to offer assistance, were shouting something his water laden ears couldn't decipher. Sirens announced the welcomed approached of proper authorities, but a sudden realization ruined the momentary relief.

Sirens meant rescue, to which Mick was relieved for, but it also meant police. People would ask questions and he couldn't answer truthfully. Normally, a well placed series of white lies were simplistic. He had been lying throughout his entire life. However, the evidence was damning towards the facts. Someone, probably the detective that had questioned them yesterday, would be able to put the pieces together, and there was virtually nothing he could say that would discourage him. He and Gina were not working an official case, and one was certainly going to be opened by the local PD if he couldn't concoct a partially believable cover story.

He attempted to locate possible perches in the immediate vicinity, for both Jonah's men and Lucas Baines. There were quite a few that Jonah and his men could have used, yet only three viable in which Baines would have chosen with his compound bow in mind. Mick's intentions were to locate the perches, find the best defensive position, and wait until rescue arrived to secure the area. It wasn't a guarantee that Jonah and Baines would flee the area, if they had stayed after Seth and Walter's van plummeted into the darkness below, but it was certainly better than staying in the water and in the open.

Baines' perch was most likely, given angle of trajectory based upon the gaping hole in the Acosta Bridge railing and the memory of the events that preceded it, a large rustic metal construction support spanning approximately fifteen feet into the air from a support just before the lip of the bridge. Mick couldn't bring himself to recall a technical name for such a contraption, but he associated it with a kind of guarded ladder. The breaks in the metal checkered pattern were perfect for maintaining cover whilst offering a key position for a sniper.

Lucas operated with bows and handmade arrows, akin to something from a comic book about an archer he had read when he was in primary school. Mick was still working through the technical aspects behind the shot in Walter from that position, which, while swimming, was merely to keep his thoughts inline. The arrow would have had to pierce bullet proof glass at such a high speed at a precise moment, custom crafted to pierce bullet proof glass and as stealthy as an armor piecing round...

The murky water shook him again, warmer than he anticipated, coating every inch of skin until he wordlessly admitted that he probably looked like a drowned rat, but it was still far too cold for his approval. It tasted foul, as any river running through a bustling city would have, and it tainted his tongue with every futile sputter he gave against it. He spit away mouthfuls as he swam, trying desperately not to swallow, feeling the dense water block his nose in spite of his hardest efforts. Waterlogged clothing slowed him substantially; his boots heavy and his jeans tightened uncomfortably against skin, as well as the leather of his jacket biting against the seeping bullet wound in his bicep with every stroke of his arms. His hair dripped before his eyes, dragging stinging water that burned as he fought the instinct to swim blind.

If he didn't have to fear for Gina's safety, he would have found a dry surface to perch himself against minutes ago. She swam without assistance, maintaining his accustomed pace easily, but appeared to struggle with the strokes of her injured hand. The weight of his shirt secured tightly around the bleeding appendage proved bothersome, as well as the drastic weight difference in her leg strokes from her missing boot and sprained ankle. Her dirty blonde hair drifted in the water like a halo, almost a captivating brown. The tight jeans were undoubtedly regretful and the material of her shirt beneath her open jacket was nearly transparent, but Mick respectfully diverted his eyes.

They swam side-by-side, in unison strokes, just as they did everything else involved in their lives as partners. The gesture drew the flashing memory of their _false kiss_ in the van, their ruse to lure Seth into revealing who they were truly working for, and for a fractured moment, he smirked at the level of silent teamwork they displayed. There was bound to be conversation about the incident later. She would want to _discuss _it, analyze the unspoken, and it wasn't a conversation he was keen for.

She was getting under his skin… No, actually, she had already carved a nice seat in the deepest section of his heart, and he couldn't even understand _how _that was possible.

Varying styles of independent private boats were spotted along the edge of the river, small singular docks a mere speck as they swam towards the nearest concrete pedestal supporting one concrete cylinder attached to the bridge directly adjacent to land. The underside of the bridge discouraged sunlight, but for the time being, it was a perfect perch. Water levels had risen to cover the concrete completely, yet the few feet appeared shallow in comparison to the depths threatening to swallow them.

It took no more than four minutes to reach the perch. Adrenaline had kept them moving, the promise of safety and dry land etched as their only reliable objective in the midst of their troubles. Once that was accomplished, as Mick felt stability beneath wobbly legs and cold concrete beneath painfully water-wrinkled fingers, the adrenaline began to ebb into manageable levels.

They spent several minutes recovering from their exhaustion, inhaling long bouts of air, coughing away the taste of murky river water, savoring the relief of stability beneath their feet despite the water still above their waists, and allowing tensely sore muscles the appreciated minutes of disuse to calm the active tremors. However, regardless of how relieved Mick was to find purchase on something concrete again, he couldn't truly relax.

The subconscious hyper attentiveness recognized a looming danger within minutes. It twitched in the background of thought, itched like a scab he couldn't scratch, and he felt the sudden warning as a sinking knot in his gut.

They were not safe. True, they may have found a suitable perch to lick their wounds, sort to speak, but safety avoided them like the plague. People, witness above, were oblivious. Hell, even Gina seemed unaware to the persistent anxiety of approaching danger. They didn't _sense _what he did, didn't have the same nagging extreme instinct, which often meant that they wouldn't understand until it was a second too late.

Gina inhaled a long breath as she mimicked his movements and leaned against the pillar. She weaved her arm around his for a brief moment, as if to prop her head onto his shoulder in a familiar gesture of comfort, but stopped as he involuntarily flinched. Gentle fingers, a light touch that didn't register pain to the burning cauterized gunshot wound, brushed against the dripping hole in his bicep. She grimaced in sympathy, running a feather-like attentive circle to gauge the damage. "That's going to leave another scar." She mused aloud. Her voice was soft in the commotion above, a gentle tone Mick subconsciously clung to, as he was made aware of their close proximity by the warm breath tickling his ear.

The bullet wound continued to seep crimson through both the entrance and exit, and Mick was certain that blood loss was one factor contributing to the painful pulse in his skull. Another, one he wouldn't admit to Gina unless absolutely necessary, was possibly the jagged section of split skin concealed in the back of his hairline. His head had smashed into the dash during the impact with the water, and while he did regain his senses with the assistance of adrenaline moments later, he couldn't deny that the impact had left him dazed and sore. Gunshot wounds at such a close range had a tendency to cauterize the damaged tissue and dampen excess blood loss. However, the minutes of paddling through the river water had seemed to make matters worse.

Mick captured her hand with his and gently pushed the analyzing fingers away. A forced smirk was meant to defuse her worries, in vain, no doubt, but he settled for a purposefully contradictory grin as he pressed himself against the concrete and ripped his eyes from the darkness cascading beneath the bridge. "Women find scars interesting…" The retort slipped from his tongue before he realized just how ridiculous it truly sounded.

Gina narrowed her eyes for a moment and withdrew her fingers from his. She pouted, seemingly incredulous towards his statement, and interrupted with a rough pinch of nails against the bullet wound. He shamefully yelped and recoiled against the motion, training dark eyes upon her as he gaped in shock, his opposite hand grabbing the wound to ease the pain. Her mask of frustration slipped just long enough to show remorse before she stated disdainfully, "That isn't funny, or even true."

Mick hesitated to argue the contrary. Gina had looked upon the scars marring his skin with morbid fascination in the past. When they were enduring insomnia and decided that television and tea and company were the best remedies, he was never bothered by her curious eyes or faint touches against the weathered skin of his arms and hands. During awkwardly sincere moments those brief touches stirred a fluttering feeling in his heart that he couldn't immediately dismiss, like a school boy shy over a girl he secretly fancied. She could deny the claim aloud for as long as she wanted. Mick, however, knew that she was fascinated by every tragic tale inscribed upon his skin.

"Cooper's going to be pissed. As well as my father, and my mother, and then I'll have to listen to another one of his damned lectures, and he'll probably blame you for all of this." She ranted quietly as she tilted her head upwards towards the edge of the bridge. Bright eyes slid shut for a moment as she spoke, anxiety painting every word like a canvas.

"You worry too much, darling…" Blind optimism was uncharacteristic, and judging by the tight knit of Gina's confused expression, he knew he had inadvertently allowed his loosened tongue to lead. A wave of dizziness attacked without warning, causing vision to swim for a few agonizingly long seconds and his grip on the concrete pillar edge to tighten until his knuckles matched the sudden pale complexion of his skin. He braced himself until it passed as fast as it came, not realizing that he had slipped down the pillar until water grazed his neckline once again, and his unobstructed hand weaved between his hair to find the jagged seeping line oozing fresh blood into his hair. Blood loss was beginning to take affect, and he hated the prospect of being dead weight in the water for Gina to drag to shore.

Gina's hand followed his to the jagged line as she slipped her opposite arm around his. She muttered a curse, her features suddenly fearful as she retracted the hand to frantically fish in his jacket pockets. "You should have told me that something was wrong the moment you felt it. How was I supposed to know that it was still bleeding? You're supposed to tell me these sorts of things." A sense of hurt laced fear and worry, giving her words a sharp edge that startled Mick back to crucial awareness. She found an old and soggy faded white handkerchief wadded in the bottom left pocket, patched with holes and stains regardless of the numerous times he washed it, and folded it hastily into a square before pressing it against the wound.

Mick had always found that lying to her was a futile effort. She was too clever to believe his lies, too brilliant and sensible to accept anything but the absolute truth. Lying to her directly became nearly impossible with the years of their partnership. Instead of a blatant lie, he had no choice but to settle for partial truths.

He had no desire to tell her everything he found in his search for Rais over the past few months. The less she knew about the lies he found embedded throughout the world - the fact that Owen Croft and Alis Lloyd were most certainly not who he believed them to be, as well as the haunting possibility that his parents may have faked their own deaths for reasons he had yet to truly acknowledge for his own selfish sanity, Liam Holmes was certainly involved in the chaos years before Iraq and he probably didn't even know it, and all had some baffling connection with the MI6 and CIA and Interpol - the less likely Rais would target her.

It was absurd, really, like childish wishful thinking. Rais had no sense of morality when the subject involved the innocent. If he deemed Gina as a useful tool against Mick, he would exploit that weakness in every way imaginable. Essentially, she was in constant danger because of him, just by staying close to him.

Therefore he had to distance himself. He _should _have distanced himself. But as he spent day after day with her, he just _couldn't _bring himself to leave her unprotected.

Mick hissed as he flinched away, a displeased retaliation aimed towards his frustrations at the situation on his tongue. "It's not that bad, darling." He attempted to discourage her worry, to make the situation seem far less severe, but it was a lie in itself.

Gina rolled her eyes towards the cloud scattered sky and huffed in disapproval. "After everything we just went through together, you think it's okay to _lie _and downplay the situation? To _me_, of all people?"

The Welshman shook his head vigorously, in spite of the nausea it provoked, and fixed her with a sincere expression. "I'm not lying… Not about this…" He stumbled for a decent response, something to prove that he was honest with her, even if it wasn't necessarily warranted.

She wasn't angry with him, per say, she was angry at the situation. Seth's betrayal, the ruined day she had planned with her family, everything had come to a head within a matter of seconds. Mick wasn't sure if she wanted to take her frustrations out on him at that very moment or wait until they were safe in the vacation home on the beach. Either way, he knew she would rant about it later.

Sure enough, she drew her eyes to the shifting water between them and scrunched her eyes tightly as she intervened his sputtering. "Lucas Baines killed Walter and caused that van to crash. We could have _died_ in that crash or due to drowning. All because some damned psychopath has decided to drag us into the middle a civil war kicking and screaming." She paused suddenly, her tone breaking into a soft confession to break the tension between them. "I'm just afraid that things will get worse. This isn't like any investigation we've gotten ourselves into before. Normally we're able to find an unsub, even the most clever bastard, within a week and we're able to apprehend him without too much of a struggle. I mean, there's always the possibility of loss of life. But this is so much more deadly, and I'm really afraid of what will happen by the time we do find Lucas and Jonah."

Mick remained silent for a long moment, analytical dark eyes tracing the sincerity evident among her thin features. He was uncertain as to what the appropriate response could have been. Gina had every reason to fear Baines and Jonah and anyone else Rais would send after them. Rais verged on desperate with Baines and Surkov rogue, and desperation always led to the worst murders in history. In all honesty, Mick was frightened of the consequences as well. Not necessarily the consequences for himself, because he secretly believed that he deserved every negative thing that had happened to him over the years given his kill record in war, but the consequences for Gina and those he called family.

The hunt for Rais was unlike any other chase anyone had endured under the FBI, which meant that the likelihood of impending death for everyone involved was enough to warn anyone with common sense to the opposite direction in a heartbeat.

Mick gnawed on his bottom lip until he tasted blood, remembering how Seth had gotten a few painful punches to his face but hadn't managed to do more than leave a few unappealing bruises, and sank against the pillar ever so slightly as he muttered, "Completely understandable. I'd be worried if you weren't afraid."

"You know, before all of this happened, I was actually going to accept your offer to dinner tonight. Now I doubt we'll be allowed out of sight again once my father hears about this." Gina mused aloud after a few moments of awkward silence.

Mick simply nodded his agreement, but his eyes centered on something far more curious than Gina's change of subject.

A flash of light through the darkness before him, so quick as to be almost imperceptible, like the quick twitch of a flashlight being tested, darted off of a concrete pillar in the distance. Twenty meters, Mick concluded as he unconsciously pushed himself into a stiffer crouch and held his breath. Between two adjacent pillars twenty meters directly in front of them, cowardly hiding in the darkness, a flutter of sound and movement followed the light. The water seemed to rumble faintly around them, disturbed by an unseen force lurking in the shadows. Sound mimicked the distinguishable echo of a boat, electric yet a mixture of wood and metal given the dull hum of a motor running on idle.

If there was a boat hiding in the shadows, then the person steering it clearly had no good intentions. A simple pedestrian wouldn't bother with remaining shy if their intentions were innocent. However, if one of Jonah and Rais' assassins were tracking them, Mick was fairly certain Gina would be the first immediate collateral damage. The only possibility left, one that he secretly debated between useful and damningly dangerous, was Lucas Baines.

He would still be in the area to confirm his kill, hidden in plain sight or the recesses of a shadow, with an escape on the tip of his fingers and a defense etched into his reaction time. Mick fought with the idea of approaching Baines to gather information into Rais, regardless of the cost or what he would be forced to do, for the past twenty four hours. He could easily lure Baines into the open and subdue him, although he did have some doubts that he would survive the altercation unscathed. Baines worked for Rais which meant that he fought savagely and ruthlessly, and he would never allow himself to be caught without one hell of a fight.

The problem with his assumption was the lack of aggressive force. Baines had bid his time enough, had conducted enough surveillance over the past few weeks to learn everything about Mick and Gina. So, much to Mick's confusion, he _should _have retaliated against them when he had the perfect chance.

Another flash of light ricocheted against the water, brighter, closer than just seconds before. Mick rose to his feet instantly, shoving the dizziness to the background of thought as a fresh wave of adrenaline began to root. He inhaled shakily to prepare himself for what was to come and outstretched his arm over Gina's torso protectively, inching closer to her until she was nearly pressed between the pillar and his back. Dark eyes scanned the area attentively, taking every detail into account with surprising accuracy given the pounding in his skull. His opposite hand slipped into his boot to retrieve his sheathed knife, but stopped as his fingers brushed the hilt. Muscles stiffened in preparation as he mentally steeled himself.

"What the hell are you doing?" Gina hissed into his ear. The makeshift bandage she had pressed into the head wound was dropped into the water when she was forced behind him, tainting the water a sickening red as it began to sink. She attempted to slide sideways defiantly but he refused to allow it.

If Baines wanted to shoot Gina with one of his damned arrows, he would have to shoot Mick first.

"You don't hear that?" He muttered in response. His eyes fell to a brush of movement, the silhouette of a long speed boat becoming noticeable by the seconds.

Gina stiffened behind him and leaned forward, pressing against his back as her own eyes strained to see the silhouette. "Is that a _boat?_" She paused as the evidence explained itself, as the obvious danger of the man before them raised recognition. Her gasp was stifled as her uninjured hand tightened against the center back of his jacket.

The boat suddenly grew still. Sunlight barely graced the weathered wooden surface of the boat as it floated casually in place. Its aged sides had not been cleaned in what appeared to be decades. The interior seats were a rustic brown to compliment the exterior light wood. A name was faded against the front left side and painted in Spanish lettering.

_River trap._

Baines must have stolen it…

The sound of rustling from the boat's inhabitant ceased as a tall figure of an unidentifiable man stood ramrod straight. Lack of proper lighting hid his features and the pitch black attire certainly gave little insight into his appearance other than the fact that he was taller than Mick by several inches and thicker in his posture. His hands operated what Mick recognized a second too late as a small crossbow. It was larger than his hands, but significantly smaller than the custom compound bows he surely used against his victims. He aimed directly for Mick, silently begging him to move first.

Mick may have been able to throw knives with shocking accuracy, but he couldn't dodge the bolt from a crossbow. He couldn't retrieve his knife from the boot sheath and throw it successfully in under two seconds. It would only take two seconds for the bolt to connect with his chest, and if he tried to fight regardless of the consequences, Gina was sure to suffer as well.

"Lucas, we know Jonah is after you. We can help…" Gina dared to reason with him. She stepped out of Mick's hold just enough to hold her hands out in front of her submissively. Her tone was unsteady with fear, but the forced calmness was anything but reassuring.

"Oh, I know you will." The response was spoken in Welsh, which took Mick by surprise, as his stance changed minutely. "Your father got close to an end for Eli before he abandoned the hunt like a coward and ran for the hills, lad, and now you're going to follow in his footsteps, or she'll die as motivation." He twitched his head to the side slightly, seemingly to study the couple, before he fired his crossbow and reloaded within a second to fire again.

Mick felt the bolt connect with the center of his chest a moment before he saw the second embed itself just beneath the skin inches from Gina's heart. He shared a look of raw terror and shock with her, locking eyes for the briefest of moments, as if neither could believe that they had just been shot in unison. The seconds stood deathly still, sound closing around them into an unrecognizable buzz as he stood too shocked to move a single muscle upon willpower alone.

Finally, an unsteady hand wrapped itself around the shaft of the bolt in his chest, fingers growing numb as he yanked the projectile from his skin with a stunned wince. He stared at the five inches of bloodstained glistening needle as his eyes began to lose focus.

Poison. A strong sedative. Perhaps even a custom concoction Baines created specifically for him, like the unidentified hallucinogenic Rais had forced into his veins so many years ago.

The pain accompanied an indescribable haze that trickled over consciousness, as if someone had flipped a switch and his brain was slowly shutting itself away. Dreamless oblivion swallowed him as his legs gave way to the water around him, and he was vaguely aware of involuntarily dragging Gina into the depths with him when they tried to stabilize each other.

* * *

Marc and Katherine Rawson were murdered by an arsonist on April thirtieth, 1991. They were supposed to be innocent people, a loving couple who worked hard for the food on their table and the clothing on their backs. Their love for their children was never brought into question, and Mick knew they would willingly die for their children rather than allow anyone to so much as touch a single hair atop of their heads.

Marc was a private inspector who worked out of a mysterious field office in Cardiff, but Mick had doubts as to the validity of that claim based on the fact that those he spoke with who were supposed to know Marc had no idea who he was.

Mick had spent the majority of his life believing that his parents were killed by someone with a grudge against his father. His father was responsible, according to the few reports he was able to pull using his status in Interpol, for the arrest of more than a dozen dangerous criminals over the course of eight years. It was a reasonable assumption that one of them found what he held dear and tried to destroy it in the name of revenge.

But it was a _lie_. Everything he grew to believe about his parents, his life in Penarth before he was tossed into London with Jenna, was a _hoax._ Somehow he believed it, even when the minor evidence and unspeakable instinct which said that there were too many holes in the story left a raging feeling of dread toiling in his subconscious.

The first indication of the lie had been Owen's supposed death. Owen Croft, according to records from Interpol and Scotland Yard, died in the house fire that killed his parents and the arsonist. His body was found under a doorway, crushed and burned as if he had been trying to escape when the bomb exploded. Years later, a man who shared a strikingly identical likeness to Owen, even down to the light brown mustache and beard that Alis constantly threatened to shave off of his face because it gave him a mangy look with the brunette rats nest he called hair, was found dead in the mountains of Northern Wales due to a hiking accident. He had a wife at the time who, when Mick called the number given by his contact in Interpol, burst into wracking sobs at the mention of her deceased husband and promptly slammed the phone down. Mick tried to contact her afterwards, but she refused to answer his phone calls.

The second clue had been Alis Lloyd. Supposedly she had been traveling the world since Marc and Katherine's death. She became a professional archeologist and was supposed to be working on an important dig site overseas for the past year. However, when Mick called the number listed as her contact, the woman claimed to have no knowledge of an Alis Lloyd. The British embassy in Egypt was contacted next, and he was run through four different embassies finally tracking back to London before they told him that she was indeed working in Egypt. The run-around process was the perfect example of an agency trying to cover their tracks and a cover being desperately explained to avoid suspicion.

Lucas's statement confirmed what Mick feared.

Marc Rawson had been trying to find Rais, to stop the chaos before it developed into an unstoppable monster. In the end, he had no choice but to fake his own death, run into hiding with his wife, and abandon his children in the absurd name of protection.

They didn't die to protect Mick and Jenna. They abandoned them willingly, because they believe it was the only sensible option.

Abandonment hurt worse than the idea that they had died in 1991. Mick almost preferred the lie above the truth. It was less painful because he had already learned how to cope with the grief. The truth, however, left a knot in his chest that wasn't caused by bruises or the damned crossbow bolt.

For a singly agonizingly long hour as he laid on his side, chained to the wooden flooring on a depressed and stained mattress that reeked of death and mildew, stripped to only his boxer briefs beneath a scratchy blanket providing little warmth, blinded by pain and unable to so much as open his eyes to observe his current prison, he felt as if he were suffocating. He wanted, for the first time in his life, to find a solitude corner and weep like a heartbroken child. It wasn't pain of his injuries that threatened to gag him, to turn him raw from the inside out, because said injuries were numbed by the nameless drug Lucas had forced into his blood. They hadn't been stitched or treated yet - Lucas was currently stitching Gina's hand on an adjacent mattress - but it was only a matter of time.

Even the panic of helplessness was dulled into a nagging ache. The fear of being tied down again, of the pain and anguish waiting just beyond the corner, instigated flashing memories of his days in previous captivity. Torture wasn't Baines' preferred method, which was a sole comfort. However, the memories were enough to make him physically nauseous.

It was the fact that he had been lied to for his entire life that truly burned worse than any other wound he had sustained in the past. The fact that his parents may have lived for more than a decade after they abandoned him, that they _could _have still been alive at that very moment, created ridiculous optimism. It was possible, although unlikely, that they were hiding somewhere in Wales, beneath his nose for decades, and they were just waiting for him to find them.

Unlikely, not impossible.

Mick teetered on the edge of awareness as his thoughts scattered about the agonizing possibilities. The slightest noises were grasped for stability. Shuffling footsteps mingled as Baines approached him to kneel on the floor to his left, a choking mist of dust kicked into the stale salty sea air, yet he couldn't cough away the grime from settling against his tongue. In the background, the roaring crash of waves provided insight to an abandoned and secluded house on the beach. A muffled feral growl originated from a dangerous dog nearby, probably holding a guarding stance in another room, which proved to be a useful security feature. Burning wax meant candles that were used to provide light in the darkness.

Baines sighed exaggeratedly as he placed a metal box on dirty wooden flooring, shuffling the contents wordlessly for several moments. Mick could smell cheap alcohol in the room, the familiar and enticing addiction he fought with for years before Gina gave him a reason to remain sober. It rolled off of Baines' breath after the sigh, suggesting that he was slightly buzzed during this entire mess.

Mick attempted to flinch away as rugged fingers wrapped around the edge of the blanket nearest his left shoulder. The blanket was pulled down his torso until it rested against his hips, and the unreasonable fear of what Baines would do caused him to shudder violently as he tried to will his muscles to fight. Baines had already stitched Gina's hand, and he silently prayed he showed some sense of respect and saved her from indecency. However, he knew that their soggy clothing had to be removed and warmth had to be replaced.

His injuries may have been numbed, but the sharp sting of alcohol against the opened bullet wound in his bicep burned like fire against his skin. He jerked in retaliation, suddenly pleased with himself when Baines muttered an order to remain still and shifted his arm to obtain a better angle at the wound. The wound had been left to seep freely since his abduction. Blood loss began to take effect when he was still in the river with Gina, starting with dizziness and nausea, and the extreme lack of energy was certainly another troubling factor.

A fresh prick of a needle against the outer edges of the bullet wound followed the sickening pull of sanitized string, and if he had the energy, he would have protested as the sensation rolled his stomach. The stitches were painless, but the silence and fear recoiled in his conscience vividly.

"Relax, Rawson. If I wanted to kill you and your little girlfriend, I would have done so by now." Baines stated in Welsh, pausing his stitch work momentarily as he pressed two rough fingers against the pounding pulse point in the sniper's neck and wordlessly counted. He withdrew a long minute later and continued fluently, "Adrenaline can't save you this time. You've still got another twenty four hours before the drug flushes out of your bloodstream. I'll give you some credit, however. LaSalle hasn't even regained consciousness yet, and you've managed to wake up just sixteen hours after you were injected. That beats the record for everyone else I've ever used this on before."

Sixteen hours after injection would have placed their current time between seven and eight in the morning on the third of April. The basic time frame to report a missing person was after forty eight hours. However, Mick anticipated that Cooper and his teammates would realize their abduction within the first six hours, and Dean LaSalle would have been the first contact Cooper made to assist with the search. Their events on the Acosta Bridge had already drawn the attention of authorities, and therefore it was only a matter of time before someone found them.

Waiting another twenty four hours for the drugs to leave his system was unacceptable. He had to find a way out immediately. The problem, of course, was the effects the drugs had on his motor control. If he could bide time until the drugs began to ebb away, until he could feel his limbs and stood any chance of defending himself and Gina, he could save himself. But the longer he stayed chained and out of control, the less confident he became towards his plans for escape.

The needle returned to his bicep to stitch the wound as Baines lowered his voice slightly. "I've already patched up her hand. She lost quite a bit of blood, but not nearly as much as you have. I had to find an alternative method to replace the blood that was lost for both of you. The local hospital will be upset to learn that they're missing several bags of universal O negative, but I'm putting it to good use. Once I get you stitched up, I'll let you rest for a bit more while the new blood does its job."

Mick willed a protesting retort on his tongue, a noise to show his disdain towards Baines's assistance, but the best he could manage was a faint hiss as the cauterized skin was pulled closed tightly.

"Trust me, Michael; this isn't what I had in mind when I decided to ask for your help. I'm not the enemy here."

Mick would have snorted in disbelief at the absurdity behind his words. He wasn't an _enemy_? Then why in the hell did he kidnap him and Gina? Why would he risk killing both of them in the crash, or when he shot an arrow towards them the night before, or when he led Mick into oncoming traffic? All of his recent actions proved that he couldn't be trusted, that he was dangerous and unstable, and Mick had absolutely no reason to believe otherwise. As long as Gina and his family were stuck in the midst of a civil war, Mick would never believe innocent intentions from anyone in contact with Rais.

Baines scoffed at himself a breath later, sealing the last stitch in the entrance wound. "Of course you don't believe a word I say. You've no reason to. But I wasn't lying when I said that she would die as motivation." The last stitch was singed into place by a cigarette lighter, a warm towel produced from a hot water basin within arms length cleaned away the remaining blood, and gauze was taped above the black strings with little care to the sudden flare of pain the action incited.

"Let me tell you a story, and then maybe you'll understand why I need your help to finally restore my freedom. Although, in fair warning, I'm not much of a storyteller." The older Welshman repositioned Mick's arm to tend to the exit wound as he spoke, his tone briefly hesitant and considerate.

"Once upon a time, there was a happy Welsh family living in Barmouth. In 1987, during a family reunion shortly after Jenna Rawson was born, Awstin Baines was murdered by Marc Rawson. He was pushed out of the second story window, the same room said family had been renovating for the past several months. Awstin's oldest son, Lucas, witnessed the entire fight and murder first hand. He saw his father die on the concrete, and turned bitter and angry at the world when the world refused to believe the truth. So, years later, Lucas ran away from home. He stayed homeless for a week before a kind foreign man offered him shelter and respect. Lucas was so thrilled by the sudden compassion, the likes of which he hadn't seen in his family since well before his father's death, that he didn't realize what he was getting himself into until it was too late. The man called himself Eli, no last name, just Eli. Lucas assumed he was a business man from the Middle East, and quite possibly a father given the way he treated Lucas, but as it turned out, Eli was a monster."

The pause lasted long enough for Baines to tie the last stitch on the exit wound and seal it. He covered the wound with a single gauze before wrapping the width of his bicep in a long securing bandage, ensuring that it was tight enough before he turned his attention to the scabbing head wound with a hiss of sympathy. Warm water began to clear the caked blood as Baines continued.

"Years passed before Lucas realized that Eli was a monster. Eli had incorporated Lucas into his family, taught him the ways of the world, how to fight and defend himself and how to control those urges that so many others deemed as murderous. They didn't understand, but Eli did. Eli was more of a father to Lucas than his own father had ever been, and Lucas began to grow very fond of Eli as a father figure. Lucas perfected so many useful skills because Rais had given him the opportunity and life to do so. Within five years, Lucas was known as one of the youngest assassins Eli had at his disposal. Lucas could get in and out of situations no one else could. He never missed a shot with his arrows, and within another five years, Eli taught him how to use chemistry to kill in unison with his arrows. He was unstoppable. The entire world was going to bow at his feet, and those who didn't would see just how bloody brilliant Lucas truly was."

Absolute power genuinely corrupted even the strongest of minds. With Baines' need for superiority and his selfish desire to prove himself, he was the perfect candidate for another assassin. He held little to no morals and carried all psychological signs of a dangerously misunderstood personality. Rais provided a thriving environment for the murderous personality, but Mick doubted he had ever anticipated one of his prized possessions to betray him.

"For the longest time, life was good. It was simple, really. Lucas followed orders, killed his targets, received praise for his hard work, and was granted freedom to travel and explore the world. The only setback was that he couldn't tell the world who he really was. He was given a new identity for every mission and every country, and he was never allowed to be seen by anyone who may have placed a name to a face. That meant no friends or otherwise."

The lack of social life carried two very important purposes. It protected Lucas and Rais and the entire organization, as well as ensured that Lucas remained under Rais' spell. If he were to find a friend, someone he could relate with, he would ask questions that Rais didn't want to answer.

"Lucas began to doubt Eli's judgment within the first week of January of this year. He was given an assassination order by Eli himself, which usually meant that it was a very crucial assignment and there was no room for error. The word had spread that a fellow assassin, someone Eli considered as his daughter, had committed treason. She begged for forgiveness, but Eli couldn't take any more risks with her. She became a liability, and Eli couldn't have liabilities slowing him down. So she was to be captured and brought to an underground base called _Igor _or _1185_. Once captured, she would be interrogated once more and if she couldn't redeem herself, she was to be disposed of by Eli personally."

Baines finished cleaning the head wound as he dropped the bloodied towel into the basin. He used the lighter to sterilize a new needle, threaded the string, and propped his elbows on the mattress until he was inches from the sniper's head. Mick felt the hair being pushed aside from the wound and shivered in discomfort, wishing he could distance himself from his cousin as the unsettling story continued.

"The problem with that order was something Lucas couldn't necessarily explain. It was a sense of doubt that haunted him throughout the nights while he was searching for the traitor. Eventually Lucas developed enough courage to ask questions as to why one of his fellow assassins was ordered to death. Jonah, Eli's actual blood son and second right hand, only stated that Sam Cooper's team had gotten under her skin. She was compromised because another damned Rawson ruined her resolve as an assassin."

"Now, there's no such thing as coincidence, right? Lucas knew in a heartbeat that the Rawson Jonah mentioned had to be one of his cousins. In fact, it had to be one of Marc's children because Marc was the only Rawson that ever gave Eli any trouble. So, out of curiosity and to ease his mind, he dug a bit deeper into Marc's relations with Eli. He found out that Eli had lied to him since the beginning. Marc didn't kill Awstin out of spite, but in self defense. Awstin was responsible for counterfeiting identities for Eli throughout Wales and England. Marc, in his search to stop Eli under orders of the MI6 task force he led, found evidence of Awstin's involvement and confronted him. Awstin was killed in self defense. Years later, Eli ordered the assassination of Marc and Katherine Rawson because Marc was too close to finding an end for Eli's operations. The kill was confirmed, but in 2005 it was reported by one of Eli's informants in MI6 that Marc and Katherine, otherwise known as Harold and Catrin Cadwallader, both committed suicide on the eleventh of April."

Baines paused for dramatic effect, allowing the words to sink into the silence as he pulled away from his ministrations to count Mick's accelerated pulse again. His words destroyed every preconceived notion of hope, every ridiculous optimistic idea that he may have been able to find them alive and well, and Mick was certain the acknowledgement of their death had physically ceased his heartbeat in his chest. The grief twisted into despair, choking his lungs as a muted sob lodged itself into his throat, tightening his chest as anger and frustration boiled to the surface, but he couldn't _express _the emotions stabbing at his psyche.

He couldn't fight or sob or even move a single finger. All he could do was will a singular objective his mind could center upon rather than the grief threatening to choke him into an early grave.

Harold Cadwallader wasn't an informant or alias for a separate crucial member of the investigation between CIA, MI6, and Interpol, he was Mick's father. It was the alias given after his first death, a new name and life without his children that wasn't deserved or even worth living. The hints scattered about evidence, initials and brief mentions of the name, were meant for Mick's eyes. Mick remembered, in those few fleeting moments of understanding, the way his father used to call him _Sherlock_ because he was too attentive and brilliant for someone of such a young age. If anyone could find the answers to decades of unsolvable mysteries, Marc must have known Mick would have been responsible.

Double suicide on the eleventh of April, Mick's twenty second birthday, was the end of their suffering. While Mick knew, from a psychological standpoint, why they could do such a horrendous thing, the gruesome imagination of their suicide rolled uncontrollable nausea in his stomach.

Minutes carried mutely as Mick focused on breathing through the pain and nausea, dragging whistling deep breaths through his nose as his chest heaved. Baines returned to the stitching in his hairline and preceded his story.

"The fact that Marc and Katherine were given new lives and abandoned their children as well as the hunt for Eli didn't convince Lucas to doubt Eli. It was an epiphany that did the trick. Eli boasted about his daughter, the perfect little assassin he had raised since she was a mere child, and it was quite obvious, at least to those he was closest to, that he loved her. Supposedly. The epiphany convinced him otherwise. If Eli were willing to interrogate and murder his own daughter because she became a liability, than what would happen if he grew tired of Lucas? What would happen, if by some unfortunate means, Marc's son followed his footsteps and found Lucas? His covers were elaborate and precise as to be almost unbreakable, but Sam Cooper and Michael Rawson had a very dangerous record. Once they found Eli's daughter, it was only a matter of time before they found Lucas as well. As much as Lucas trusted Eli, he realized that Eli would protect himself and his reputation before he protected Lucas. So Lucas ran and sought partnership with Eli's daughter, vowing to end the damned organization that Eli cared so much about. And who better to assist him in his quest than the two men that posed a very real threat to Eli's reputation."

That was the motive behind Baines' kidnapping. He needed to lure Mick into a position that he couldn't refuse, persuade him to assist with his own agenda, or there would be consequences. Baines didn't want to kill Rais; he wanted to destroy his reputation. He wanted to force the man he grew to label as a father to notice him and care more than the organization Rais had spent decades creating. In his deluded sense of right and wrong, Baines honestly believed that Mick and Cooper would assist him given the appropriate leverage.

The information about his parents was shown as a peace offering, a portrayal of Lucas's sincerity towards a new alliance. But it was the innuendo pertaining to Gina's safety a short while ago that almost forced Mick to accept the offer.

If Mick and Cooper refused, with Surkov already in Cooper's custody, Gina would be the first of many casualties until they complied. Baines had been running surveillance tactics on Mick and Gina for months. He had to know that they were each others weaknesses. Mick would willingly give his life if it meant that Gina could live happily ever after. He was sure Gina would do the same for him.

Mick couldn't allow her to become collateral damage. He could follow Baines and the plan against Rais, and then kill two birds with one stone at the appropriate moment without Gina or his family becoming a casualty in the cross-hairs. Unfortunately, the only way such a plan would succeed in his favor, was if he followed his father's footsteps. If he separated himself from those Rais could use against him, preferably by faking his own death so Rais would have no reason to believe that his family or friends knew of his true intentions, he could work freely with Baines until he no longer needed the older Welshman. At which time, he would be close enough to Rais to kill him, Lucas, and Jonah. Any other followers would surely try to avenge Rais, but they would inevitably place themselves in the cross-hairs and he wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

A grand assault, a tactical ruse and covert mission, rogue of the FBI and Interpol and British Army SAS, was the only viable plan. Anything else would eventually lead to collateral damage. It was an impossible situation to win, one without a decent outcome, but rogue and presumed dead was a far cry from actual death of himself or someone cared for. The consequences would likely destroy his career, his freedom, and his life. SAS would dishonorably discharge him and charge him with treason, which, in his position, was punishable by death. Interpol would take the lead to locate him, and his old partner would likely be the one to find him. Fickler wouldn't be able to protect him; he would be banned from the US and extradited back to the UK if he were caught.

The ends outweighed the consequences. Rais would be dead. Gina and his family would be safe. Liam would wake from his catatonia. Mick could finally breathe again.

Baines finished the stitching on his scalp and rose to his feet, stretching his legs after dropping the needle into the water basin. He stifled a yawn as he rounded the mattress to face Mick. Several hard taps against his bruised cheek and harsh encouraging words urged him to open his eyes, even for a single minute.

Mick's eyes refused to focus as he complied with the order. He blinked fruitlessly, trying to clear the lens of fog seemingly sown into his retinas. The hazy image of Baines crouched on his heels before him drew immediate attention. However, the shape of Gina curled and chained by the ankles on a mattress less than five feet away, resting soundly beneath a thick wool blanket, a dense mass of white bandage wrapped around her hand limp against the steady rise and fall of her upper abdomen, was only slightly reassuring. When observations requiring sight proved too strenuous to with both eyes, he opted for only his left half lidded into what he hoped was a deadly glare.

Baines appeared to grin, although it was difficult to discern through the mass of darkened colors dancing in his eyes. He dragged the metal container across the floor once more and rifled through the contents as he spoke in fluent English rather the Welsh Mick had been translating. "You get one chance to end Eli or Rais, or whatever the bloody hell you want to call him. Those men who lured you and LaSalle into that SUV, the blokes who claimed to be CIA, those were two of Jonah's men. They won't stop coming after you until they find me, and even then, once they realize that you're not backing down, she'll be the first to die because of it. If you and Cooper help Surkov and I destroy the operation, I won't stand in your way of seeking revenge on everyone else _except _Eli. Jonah and everyone else that helps him with the dirty work, it'll be you that could take them out. That would protect LaSalle and your teammates and your family."

The older Welshman withdrew a vial and needled syringe from the container, extracting the contents into the syringe as he glanced towards Gina's sleeping form. He hovered the glistening needle inches from Mick's face as his opposite hand flexed the sniper's wrist to present a vein for injection. "I can hold Jonah off until the twelfth. By then, I'll be out of money, supplies, and contacts. You have until then to make up your mind. Protect the woman you so clearly have fallen for and get revenge against the man who destroyed your family, or risk everything by cowardly running away. It's not really a difficult decision, is it?"

Baines was manipulating him, using his protectiveness for Gina and his bloodthirsty revenge to plant the tempting offer, all whilst portraying a lack of control that aroused panic. It was a dirty mind game, one that he probably learned from Rais, which certainly created his desired response. But while Mick knew he was being manipulated, knew Baines had planned everything to influence Mick into his favor, he couldn't disregard the temptation.

With Rais' organization in shambles, there would be no one else he could hide behind. He would be vulnerable, and that was the only way Mick could strike.

"You'll awake again in twenty four hours. The drugs should be out of your bloodstream by then." Baines stated as he plunged the needle into a vein in Mick's wrist, administering the contents with a slow push of his thumb against the plunger. He removed the needle once it was empty and cast it aside into the water basin. The blanket was pulled up to his chest, but the same arm was kept atop for the awaiting IV. "I'll drop you and LaSalle on the beach a quarter mile from the vacation home you're staying at. Expect one hell of a hangover."

Dreamless obscurity accompanied the return of the haze in full force, and this time, Mick had no desire to ever wake.

* * *

Note- Finally! It's finished! I feel so accomplished. So, apologies for the lateness of the chapter. My garden has started to wake with the recent weather and all of my plants have needed the attention. I'm actually going to start selling the extra plants to thin the beds so the older plants don't suffocate the newer, as well as to earn a bit more money. Who knew that Rose of Sharon shrubs are ridiculously expensive once rooted from seed? I sure as hell didn't, and now that I do know, I'm encouraged by the hundreds I have scattered about.  
Anyways, I digress.  
This chapter was set from Mick's perspective because it needed to be. Originally I had written it three times using Lucas, three using Gina, and twice using Beth. This was the best perspective possible to really propel the story. It's all fairly self-explanatory, so I won't bore you with any more useless details. There is one major thing I want to point out, and that is Lucas's offer to Mick. I can't give too many spoilers, but I can assure you that his future decision, whether he accepts or not, will definitely be a shocker. He's not a fool, and he's not gullible. He's got a counter plan. It's just a matter of when and how he can put it into action.  
So, I think that covers things for now. Leave a review if you have the time. I can't thank all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work enough for your encouragement and support during the long absences of a chapter. It really does mean a lot to me.


	22. Defenseless, Dependent, and Alone

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Fan Fiction Number Nine

One-Eighty By Summer

Summary- A new lead to the man responsible for the murder of five fellow agents months before directs the team to a newly found assassin working for Rais. Unfortunately the man has connections to Mick that none had ever imagined. When Gina and Mick are forced to attend ten days in Florida for a LaSalle wedding, Cooper contacts an old friend to take their place on the case.

Rated high teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. Pairings are Mick/Gina, but not necessarily together yet. They're getting there. Major spoilers for my previous stories. There may be some for the first season of the show too.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the show would air every Wednesday and it would focus a lot on Mick. Because really, how could his character not be interesting and fun to play with? Such a shame that I don't, so, yeah… Anyways, the only things I do own are my creations. Rais, Surkov, Flores, Nikola, Liam, etcetera. Everything else is just for my own entertainment and practice.

I'm trying something different with this. Because Mick and Gina won't necessarily be working a Red Cell case but there still has to be one otherwise things would get stale, the perspectives will be alternated between chapters. The case itself plays a lot into the Rais arc and that will be from the standard perspective. Most likely centering on Beth though. The first is focused on Surkov. Adventures with Mick and Gina will be told from my usual perspective. So, the standard exclaimers apply. I've only been to Florida twice for vacation so personal experience is used to make that aspect of the story more believable. Google and Wikipedia are still my lifeline and they help with everything else that I don't have experience in. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. No one beta reads this, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 22 Defenseless, Dependent, and Alone

The numerous serial murder cases I assisted throughout my career, from the predictable snipers to the startling deadly bastards who mutilated the innocent, paled in comparison to Rais. Every mentally unstable rapist, sick-minded pedophile, unsympathetic sniper, deranged arsonist, and generally menacing serial killer, each were child's play to a man like Rais. Incompetent, unnecessary, _immature _in the context of his plans. They were a speck on the world, a world he reined over from the shadows, and not one I assisted in locking away would ever prepare me for the hunt against him.

Rais was an entirely new genre, one he created decades ago, and we were ill equipped to fight against him with any expectations of success.

The case was dictated as _need-to-know_ based on the dangers lurking in every corner. Those closest to us were never privy to any information that would have drawn them into the cross-hairs. A parade of partial lies and vague responses was unfortunately common in Red Cell agents. We were encouraged to separate ourselves psychologically, to place a metaphorical barrier between family and work, because it ensured safety. We had seen what happened to those who meddled in Rais's plans. He held no remorse or restraint, and he would destroy whomever he deemed as a threat by whatever, _whoever_, means possible.

I had no prideful excuses about the fact that I was afraid of Rais. Everything he did, every scar marring Mick's skin that I had looked upon with such heart-wrenching sympathy and grotesque situation coordinated in the shadows, justified the fears. The man created the worst murderers I had ever seen, trained them to be impervious to most psychological traps and coy enough to survive with the mission intact no matter the costs, and I was inclined to believe that his quest to increase suffering for Mick placed me in a unique and deadly position as collateral damage.

Lucas proved that I was merely a means to an end in the midst of a civil war when he kidnapped us. We were pawns in an elaborate game, unwilling and resistant, and every second of those two days held in captivity only served to represent the direness of the latest series of events. His intentions, if I had to wager a brief assumption, were to use me as leverage. I had not been conscious for the two days and everything after the crossbow shot us was nonexistent, as if the memories never existed, so I was profiling with very little certainty or details. However, it was obvious by Mick's sudden sullen and grieving demeanor that Lucas had enacted another portion of his plans. He wanted to separate Mick from the rest of our team, myself included, and it seemed that whatever conversation or method used was psychologically cruel.

Because the dangers were too great, we couldn't risk those we considered immediate family.

Lies to my parents and family about my occupation began when I joined Cooper's Red Cell. Excuses and partial truths were a necessity. The unsubs we captured were unparalleled to most others and were more than capable of reciting revenge in some fashion. All my parents could perceive from the information given over the past three years was that I hunted deadly serial killers with the best Red Cell team the FBI had to offer. They didn't know about Rais or the details of our latest cases, and I wasn't about to reveal more than the necessary either.

Mick and I awoke on the beach a quarter of a mile from our vacation home six hours before, just past ten in the morning, to a familiar spring thunderstorm cascading around us. The intimidating gray sky appeared to split in two and dumped almost two inches of chilly morning rain for more than an hour as deafening claps of thunder followed blinding flashes of spider webbed lightening. We were saturated to the bone by the time we staggered to the back patio door. Clothing clutched to bruised and tender skin painfully, our boots the only missing article to our attire but our socks squished with every uncoordinated step, and the bandages Lucas had used to patch our wounds, which was both a surprise and disconcerting, were in desperate need of a replacement.

We supported each other equally throughout the journey home. The drugs forced upon us by Lucas left the remnants of an unbearable migraine and insufferable nausea. Additional aches and pains from our injuries, such as the sprain in my ankle that burned with every assisted step, the throb in my hand from the shrapnel I had accidentally grasped during the crash on the Acosta Bridge, and the undoubtedly sensitive gunshot wound in Mick's left bicep, worked in tandem with the weather to slow our movements. The drug injection sight was raw to the touch beneath my jacket; an angry inflamed swell about the size of my thumb and the bandage atop seemed to aggravate it every time I shifted my arm around Mick's shoulder.

Neither of us spoke more than a few words during the process.

Mick kept his gaze locked on the sands, his expression eerily adjacent to the neutral complexion portrayed months ago, during the hours before he attempted to drink himself into an alcohol-poisoned death. It was shock and grief disguised and guarded with pride. The exact same sequence of facial expressions, regardless of his attempts to hide them, occurred when Cassie O'Connell was murdered and Jenna was presumed dead for six months. He was incapable of portraying sorrow like most men, with acknowledgement and rational, normal, tears. A section of his personality refused to allow any emotion that may have been perceived as vulnerability to the surface, especially around others. Instead, when grief overcame sensibility and threatened to expose raw emotions, he reverted to a shocked mute state that, given the incidence, mimicked temporary catatonia.

Lucas did _something _to him, said _something _that shook his very core on an unprecedented psychological level…

Gabrielle and Helen were discussing something wedding related with my parents in the kitchen when Mick and I stumbled inside. Their conversation ceased at the drenched sight of us. Shock rendered speechlessness for what I assumed was an eternity, wide mournful disbelieving eyes captured our own as mouths gaped and the items clutched in their hands fell to the floor with a collective clatter. Days spent without answers, with the prospect of my death weighing on their consciences, left all of them visibly shaken and shattered.

Helen released her half-emptied mug of tea to splatter around her feet, breaking the ceramic handle and chipping the rim. Gabrielle had been eating a piece of peanut butter toast, which met the floor with an almost comical splat but her hand still remained in the same position as if she was seconds from eating it. My mother and father appeared to be in the midst of making coffee, because the filter of fresh grounds coated my mother's white sandals while the stainless steel pot was slammed onto the nearest counter with enough force to cause everyone to jump in their skin.

My mother, Helen, and Gabrielle pounced on us like a swarm of over-protective mothers. They ripped me away from Mick, wrapped me in painfully tight hugs that threatened to dislodge my balance, all talking in jumbled tandem about how they falsely believed I was dead and it was a _miracle _that I was able to return to them alive. It was embarrassing and strange, to say the least, and perhaps even a bit troubling to think that while they believed reports of my demise, they were still planning Ariel's wedding.

Once they were finished showering me with uncomfortable embraces and ridiculous exclamations of a _miracle_, they proceeded to thank Mick. He stiffened and recoiled when they reached to hug him, backing himself towards the exit as they frowned and questioned his actions. When my father managed to get his bearings, he had every reason to protect himself.

My father darted past the kitchen island in a long intimidating pace and snatched the rim of Mick's jacket collar. His fist clenched until his knuckles paled and the new menacing darkness to his features obscured any signs of previous relief. Mick's back connected with the nearest wall, few feet from the exit, and a pained yelp coursed through the room as he desperately struggled to free himself. His feet slipped on the floor, socks sliding and fingers tearing at the hand inches from wrapping around his throat. My father's temper flared in the worst possible fashion, causing everyone else in the room to gasp in union and gawk. He believed the worst and the worst included the fear that Mick was the cause for our abduction.

I anticipated an instinctive retaliation from Mick. The survival instinct was abnormally overwhelming for Mick and in experience, he rarely ever allowed anyone to lay a finger on him without consequences. In any other circumstances, he would have most likely fought tooth and nail; kicked, scratched and even bitten anyone that threatened to harm him physically as long as he survived in the end. Nevertheless, whether it was because the man posing a threat was my father, or he was too engulfed by grief to possibly think about anything else, he did not resist with the same aggressiveness as done in the past. He abandoned his struggles within seconds and caught my eyes with his own tormented and sorrowed, silently apologizing before he turned his gaze back to my father.

"What in the _hell_ did you do to my daughter?" My father seethed, shaking Mick roughly, ignoring the obvious indications of discomfort.

"He didn't _do_ anything other than save my life, dad. Please, just let him go…" Exhaustion painted my words as I placed myself beside Mick defensively. A hand subconsciously brushed against his in a vain endeavor for comfort, and he weaved his fingers with my own for brief moment in return.

"You were missing for two days, Gina. Cooper and Director Fickler wouldn't answer any of my questions definitively and all evidence, according to a Detective Frazier, suggests that _he_ is involved with some dangerous people and you were dragged along with him." My father interrupted bitterly, shifting his hold on Mick's jacket collar as harsh blues trained on me with uncharacteristic sincerity. "We thought you died in that crash. They are still pulling evidence from the river and they have already retrieved one corpse with an arrow through the chest. I thought he killed you…" His tone wavered minutely as his grip loosened enough for Mick to slouch further against the wall.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this, and she wasn't supposed to get involved. No one was supposed to know. It was a secret for a reason. Now it's out in the open and I don't know what to do about it. I could _never _hurt her and you _have_ to believe that. Rais uses people and she can be used as collateral damage, and that's my fault. But I could _never _willingly put her in any danger. I'm so sorry…" Mick drew his attention with a muddled apology that soon became a long-winded and dangerous explanation. His Welsh-English accent thickened as the words spilled from his tongue in a jumbled heap, raw, shaken, uncharacteristically emotional, and the tension sapped from the room in a heartbeat.

"Dean, the boy is being honest. Now let him go." My mother intervened soothingly. She closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him away from the sniper. "Dean, they're home and she's fine. Rather than beat the entire truth out of the boy, just give her a hug and be her father for a few minutes."

The older man finally released Mick, dragging his hand across his face to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he were fending away another cancerous brain tumor headache. He heaved a submissive sigh and stepped back, allowing Mick the appropriate space to slide down the wall and curl into himself protectively, and settled with a skeptical glare towards the younger man. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes at the mention of Rais. It lasted for only a second and caused his brow to furrow and his expression to tighten. Had the room not been too full and the chances of someone overhearing the truth were too great, I had the unpleasant suspicion that he would have pressed for more detail to confirm whatever theory popped into his head.

He had worked in Navy Intelligence for more than a decade and he was a prized Navy SEAL as well as General. It was not too farfetched to believe that whispers of Rais or one of his aliases circulated through at least one unresolved mission.

My father was never known to willingly _hug_ anyone. He showed affection to his wife rarely in public and never more than a quick kiss or brief intertwine of their fingers. Ariel and I were always seconded with suffocating over-protectiveness. It should have bothered me that he remained still, narrowed eyes darting between Mick and I as if he were trying to calculate the world's longest mathematical formula, but I shrugged away the behavior as usual and turned to Mick.

I joined Mick on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees drawn to my chest, oblivious to the sore tug of bruised muscles. The room temperature surface of the wall and flooring felt warm through my waterlogged clothing, and the stability of a hard surface to lean against seemed to quell the nausea. However, the lighting above pierced through my eyes to spike the headache. Rather than prop my head against the wall, which encouraged the ceiling lighting to attack my squinted eyes, I settled against Mick's side comfortably and draped a placid arm across his rigid shoulders. My fingers circled downwards in time with the mumbled reassurances, tracing the weathered seams of the jacket, drifting between his shoulders in hopes to calm his racing heartbeat and hyperventilating breaths before a full panic attack struck him.

Mick required attention first, before psychical injuries were redressed and attended, and I doubted he even realized his own actions. The rigid posture was excused with aches from his injuries and the subconscious fear that my father would beat him for answers. A headache clouded mature rational judgment, and in his already vulnerable state, curling into himself like a traumatized child was the only course of action available. He would have tried to fight his way to freedom, to move and prove that he was psychically well just to spite differing assumptions. But it seemed as if every ounce of strength was ripped from his limbs, and he didn't even appear to have the stamina to lift his head from his folded arms obscuring his face. His fingers were ashen as they dug into his wrists, nails tearing skin in layers to leave painful abrasions, and I knew the rest of his complexion probably held the same color.

"Helen, we're going to need the first aid kit and some towels." My mother disrupted the unnerving silence with a soft yet demanding demeanor to her southern tongue. "Gabrielle, they need new clothes and a few throw blankets. Preferably something warm." She paused once more to address her husband, giving him a slight shove in my direction before stating unyielding, "Give your daughter a hug, and then finish the coffee and prepare two deli sandwiches for them. It looks like they haven't eaten in two days. We'll get them situated before we call Cooper and everyone else."

Gabrielle and Helen followed the orders without argument while my mother drifted to the kitchen sink after retrieving a glass from a cupboard. Once they disappeared out of sight to fetch the requested items, my father crouched on his heels before us. He continued to study Mick for a long moment, unpronounced realization and a spark of sympathy registered, and a second sigh escaped him in harmony with a carefully calloused hand brushing a stray soggy strand of dirty blond out of my eyes.

I flinched away, not for the reasons I was sure he misinterpreted, and paused the soothing motions to meet defeated and weary eyes.

"You said he saved your life." He grasped my bandaged hand cautiously as he spoke, gently uncurling my fingers and unwrapping the gauze to analyze the stitches. "How? Where were you for the last two days? Rais is supposed to be a myth to scare young and inexperienced soldiers. Why is a myth involved in all of this? Cooper and Fickler did say that your disappearance probably has roots to a case you've been working on, but they wouldn't elaborate…"

The bombarding questions were expected, but I still had little patience to answer more than the necessary. My head lolled on the wall as I glared at him, squinting at the blinding ceiling light, and I tried to recoil my hand from his grip as he removed the final layer of bandages but he refused to allow it. "Can we not do this now? I am cold, tired, sore, and starved. Can your impatient assault for answers wait until after I rest for a bit?" I bit my tongue in wait for his reprimand, mutely kicking myself for my disrespectfully annoyed tone.

To my surprise, he didn't argue or scold me. Instead, he brushed his thumb along the slender stitches in my palm, tracing the fresh scab with a sympathetic grimace. "You're right, now isn't the time." He paused to address Mick, visibly swallowing his pride to continue. "I don't like you, Rawson. I won't lie about it. But you brought my daughter back to us safely and that earns quite a lot of credit in my book. However, Rais is one of the most frightening myths I have ever heard. If some portion of it is more fact than fiction, if she is in any danger because of it, I expect you to protect her. Whatever it takes, you just make sure she's protected from whatever hell you've gotten yourselves into."

Mick didn't stir under the order, but I knew he heard it. I knew the words would be taken to heart, that he would go to any extremes to ensure my safety, whether my father ordered him to or not. Truthfully, I loathed the order because the implications of weakness were embarrassing. Mick didn't _need_ to protect me. After the trouble we went through with Lucas and the fact that Rais posed a threat to all, I honestly believed _he_ should have been the one to watch his footing. Rais could have ordered my death to provoke Mick into doing something incredibly suicidal, but if Rais grew bored of Mick or Mick refused to play the _game _anymore, there was nothing to protect him from an assassination.

Lucas could have planned to use Mick as a bartering chip, forcing Rais to abandon his games or lose his only worthy rival. Of course, if that were true, Mick and I would not have been released from captivity so easily.

Ultimately, my father's intentions were his own special method of portraying just how scared he was at the idea of my death. However, giving Mick the order to fuss over my well-being in the name of protection was unnecessary. It was bound to backfire when Mick's tendency for literal responses proved that he couldn't protect himself and me from a man like Rais, not without corpus amounts of undesirable bloodshed.

* * *

"You're sure you don't want someone to come with you? It's getting late and you're going to miss dinner again…"

Ariel stammered to silence within moments of her question. Her thumb ghosted against the impressive diamond and gold ring mounted on her thin finger, twirling the metal as brightly worried blues observed my impatient actions. Perched on the edge of her bed, tapping a nervous sandal covered foot against the flooring in a muted rhythm, she regarded me with a familiar expression of understanding and caution. Her daily plans with her fiancé and his family required a formal crimson red dress with matching heeled sandals. The restaurant she had been pulled away from during lunch was clearly the Sykes family's idea because she seemed uncomfortable with her attire. The manner in which she continuously pulled at the rim of her dress, as if that were going to make it longer to cover her knees, portrayed uncertainty. More than likely, the dress was bought by her fiancé and he baited her into lunch with his parents again. She didn't resist when my mother gave her the order to return home immediately, and I was positive that it was only a matter of time before she created an excuse to accomplish the same outcome.

The relief of my safe return hours before faded once I mentioned that I had to leave again. No one, particularly my parents, agreed to such a thing and had I not been a rather stubborn and independent woman, my father was sure to lock me in my room like a grounded teenager for merely suggesting disappearance again.

Lunch was spent on the couch; feet propped on the coffee table over top comfortable plush pillows that did wonders with the ice bag for my sprained ankle. A fresh set of clothing after our showers and Helen's professional opinion of our wounds, comfortable night attire of all the outfits my grandmother had to choose for us, was suppressed by the blankets and pillows spread between us. Showered with questions and praises for my return alive was annoying, but Mick's presence, even if he rarely muttered a single word, made the event tolerable. Once finished with our food, which I hadn't believed I was completely starved until two thickly layered deli sandwiches later, we retired to our shared rooms with the idea of rest in mind.

However, after a brief phone call from my father, Cooper demanded to speak with us immediately. I recited every detail I could recall in the solitude of the bedroom I shared with Ariel, but it was futile because they already had the information. There was much more to the story, most of which I could not remember, and our teammates' questions to Mick, whom I _knew_ was withholding information again, were never answered in detail. Singular answers were a simple and unhelpful _yes _and _no_, both of which served no fundamental purpose other than to portray just how tormented Mick had become.

By the end of the briefing, we learned that the CIA, MI6, and Interpol were truly given orders to incorporate the FBI into their official decades search for Rais. Fickler's office had been ransacked on the day of our kidnapping, but nothing was taken or bugged. Intimidation was the obvious intention. Surkov's fever broke less than twelve hours before and while she was much more alert than the day Cooper found her, she was still suffering the effects of severe blood loss and the poisoning. She had been giving Cooper information on Rais' known compounds stationed in Russia, and few pieces of information used to give workable possibilities to the whereabouts of Sebastian Flores.

It was the last piece of information given, the hesitant and damning facts, that turned the case from a nightmare to hell itself. Cooper had only told us because he recognized defeat in Mick's voice. He recognized even states away the sorrow and grief in every syllable and concluded that Mick had already pieced together the puzzle.

Lucas must have told him about his parents. How they faked their own death to protect him and Jenna from Rais, how they fooled Rais for years by using his own assassin against him, and how they committed suicide together on Mick's twenty-second birthday because they could not live with their betrayal and unforgivable abandonment any longer. For all of their noble intentions, they still abandoned their children and hid in Northern Wales because they were _afraid _of Rais.

Abandonment, at least in Mick's eyes, was inexcusable. His worst fears were not of fire, gore, or death, but of abandonment. It churned in his soul like rapids of a river, twisted deeper by the constant relentless dwellings of tragedy, consuming until all that remained was the reflection of a child trying to _understand _why his beloved parents would betray him. Something akin to an invisible wound, I suspected, anchored itself into the recesses of his soul and burned with enough ferocity to bring him to his knees.

I could only imagine the level of anguish, the uncontrollable mourning over parents he had already grieved for two decades ago, that rendered him into such a mentally broken state. I had no personal experience with such powerful emotions. My parents were still alive and well, for the most part considering my father was slowing dying from a cancerous brain tumor. But I could imagine what my reaction to my father's death would have been; picture the funeral and the silent sobs and the suffocating grief for months afterwards. Even then, I doubted it would ever compare to the sorrow followed by betrayal through abandonment.

Mick accepted the information as well as anyone in his position would have been able to. He never interrupted Cooper's saddened explanation, never once peeled his half-lidded eyes from a seemingly fascinating spot on the floor, and never allowed any emotion besides forced neutral on his ashen features. However, the nails on his left hand were abused severally with his right until I forced him to stop because I was afraid he would unintentionally harm himself. At that point, he mumbled an apology and left the room with a rattling slam of the door and no one had seen him since.

That was four hours ago.

His current cell phone, one of the more pricy non-contracted touch screened disposable models that he unlocked with Penelope's assistance, was lost in the crash. My father informed us that my purse and his wallet were found and locked away as evidence, but an interview and questioning session with Detective Frazier was required before they were released to us. Mick was too untrusting to leave all of his money in his wallet, and I knew that he had made laminated copies of his driver's license and anything else that may have been deemed important and kept them separate in his tan travel satchel, which never left his side unless necessary. He was bound to pack more than one phone for emergency purposes as well.

He had money, an untraceable disposable phone, and the same information in his wallet that would have allowed him into any bar across the state without question. Given the situation and his previous propensity for alcohol in the face of overwhelming stress, an old no-restrictions bar that served any number of should-be illegal alcoholic beverages was the safest bet to find him.

I had convinced my mother and Gabrielle to start contacting bars within a ten-mile radius to give a description of Mick in hopes to narrow which bar he may have drifted. My father and uncle Clyde, much to my disagreement, tried to follow him once he left on foot, but he managed to throw them off his trail within the first twenty minutes. Penelope confirmed that he had been traveling along the length of the beach with a bottle of what she assumed was scotch in hand. However, he ducked out of sight again half an hour ago.

Mick was trained in the covert arts, and he was skilled enough to remain hidden until he wanted to be found. If he really wanted to disappear, I was sure he could do so without a single whisper.

He reverted to impulses, sometimes childishly, when pushed into a traumatic situation his mind could not cope with. Muteness was always temporary. Alcohol was the most prevalent resulting impulse and therefore the most dangerous. It was never in minor amounts after a taxing case or traumatic event. He drank in excess to obscure reality, to dampen awareness and heightened senses so he could be somewhat _normal _in the eyes of those around him for a short while. Just as any other addict, he had relapsed from his sobriety in response to unyielding sorrow. Impulses were fed upon in his drunken state, and the darkest of thoughts simmering in the background could have been the death of him.

I had already seen him submit to the idea of suicide once in my lifetime, after he consumed too much scotch whilst grieving, and I had no desire to ever see it again.

"I've got to find him before he does something stupid. Just cover for me with mom and dad and I'll be home before seven. It's only three hours." I responded to Ariel's question with more annoyance than intended, and the furrow of her brow showed just how unappreciated it was. The fresh sweater jacket I had been trying to button with only one hand, a thin transparent crystal blue that Mick was obviously fond of, was abandoned with a huff of frustration when my fingers refused to cooperate. An older pair of fading jeans, slightly baggier than what was typically worn, two-toned gray tee shirt and open toed sandals were much easier to maneuver into than the damned jacket. I hadn't even bothered with the necklace Mick had given me for Christmas last year, and I was certain that was going to be impossible with only one hand.

"What do you mean by _something stupid?_ What can he really do, other than drink himself into a stupor?" Ariel asked as she rose from her seat to assist. I batted her hands away stubbornly but the gleam in her eyes suggested that I stopped before she changed her mind. Once the jacket was buttoned halfway, she reached for the diamond necklace on the nearby nightstand and rolled the gem between her fingers before offering her assistance to latch it around my neck. "He gave this to you, didn't he? It's beautiful. It must have cost him a small fortune though."

I snatched the necklace from her hand, suddenly childishly jealous that she had touched it, and fondled it in hand as if it were made from glass. "Yes, he can drink himself into a stupor and then get arrested for public intoxication. Or, knowing his luck, he'll find a way to pick a fight with someone and get his ass handed to him." Her raised brow implied disbelief, and I cursed the damned dulled headache for my short fuse.

To her credit, she didn't snap at me in return or acknowledge the behavior. She merely stepped back and folded her arms across her chest, teetering on her heels anxiously. "You're worried about him, and I understand that. There is something between you two, some kind of kindred connection. It's amazing to watch. But you two were missing for two days. You both came back with injuries and neither of you will talk about it."

"Yes, Ariel, I'm fully aware of that, thanks." I knew my explanation of _classified due to an active case_ was a bullshit excuse at best. No one believed it for a second, but no one had the audacity to pronounce the excuse.

"My point is that we were all afraid when no one would give us answers. They started pulling evidence from the river and a dead body, and all Fickler or Cooper would say was that they were searching for you in coordination with local PD."

I had no doubts that every single person in that house was fearful of my demise. The way they bombarded me with unwanted sympathy for my injuries, as well as Mick, was uncomfortable. Helen and my mother fussed when changing the bandages and my father refused to leave my side for more than a few minutes at a time, and even Leo and Shane abandoned their childish online computer games to give their condolences for our safe return. However uncomfortable their actions may have been, they meant well at heart.

"Which was pointless because the man who held us captive dropped us off on the beach…"

"_Two days later_, Gina." Ariel interrupted sharply, unfolding her arms to adamant her point with her hands. "Do you have any idea what the possibility of your death did to the entire family? Mom and dad were a mess. Dad didn't sleep more than an hour a night and he spent all of his time on the phone with contacts to try to find you. Mom just kept crying after Frazier said that you probably didn't survive the crash and was swept down the river. _Everyone_, myself included, was stuck in this haze of doubt and uncertainty and fear because we didn't know what the hell to do. Now you're back and you're just going to leave again to find your _not-boyfriend _because you don't trust him enough to save his own ass?"

Surprised by her uncharacteristic sincerity, I hesitated to respond. She was genuinely afraid that I wouldn't return home, that something would happen and I would disappear and the family would fall to pieces because of it. We may not have been on the best of terms, but we were still siblings. Death of a sibling, especially one you secretly admired as a role model, was a kind of non-repairable wound that chiseled a hole through the heart. Ariel only joined the FBI after I did. She would never dare admit it, but I knew she always thought of me as a role model because too many of her actions followed my example to be a coincidence.

My grip on the necklace slacked, still captured by thumb and middle finger, the pendant splayed in my hand. A deflating sigh echoed throughout the room as I sank onto the edge of my own bed tiredly. "I know, and I'm sorry. Really, I am. It's just all tied to a case we're working on that's incredibly classified…"

"But you're on _vacation_. That means, by definition, no cases or work." She intervened in an almost whine. "Besides, whatever case you're working on has your _not-boyfriend_ in shambles. It's too personal."

_Shambles _was too polite. Mick had been a nervous wreck since we returned home. The beginnings of a panic attack after my father cornered him and demanded answers he could not give had left him jumpy and paranoid. Even hours after I, quite impressively if I do say so myself, managed to stave off a full panic attack, he grew withdrawn and distant from everything. He didn't eat more than half of the sandwich my father made for him, refused anything to drink that wasn't coffee or alcohol, and spent over an hour in the bathroom shower, half dressed with sightless eyes locked on the adjacent wall when I entered to check on him. I recognized the behavior as a flashback scripted by his PTSD, probably triggered by the strips of blood on his shaving razor in the sink where he had nicked himself on the chin while shaving, and spent another half an hour by his side until it passed and he was able to stand on steady feet again.

_Shambles _could not accurately describe the churning ache in his soul.

Unfortunately, given the context of the case, there was no way to avoid it.

"That's unavoidable." I replied dejectedly, maneuvering the necklace in hand to attempt to latch it around my neck one-handed.

"Because it deals with a myth?" Ariel questioned as bright eyes observed my struggles with blatant sympathy. I paused briefly to shake my head in false denial, but Ariel wasn't one to take things at face value when pressed into a situation. "Yeah, I overheard dad talking about it to mom. It's supposed to be this elaborate myth to scare young new recruits in any army, kind of like the monster under the bed only a lot more gruesome."

"It's not exactly a myth." I mumbled as I fussed with the necklace, trying to latch my fingers along the golden chain. It was unintentional, the admittance, and it slipped from my lips before I cold retract them. Ariel's blatant curiosity was going to be the death of our relationship as sisters if I didn't explain. "Myths always have a spark of truth to them at the least. Sometimes it's the slightest detail manipulated throughout years of storytelling until it's so farfetched from the original that it's almost unrecognizable. But in the end, the base is still the same."

"So there really is a man who kidnaps and butchers innocent people in almost every unconventional way imaginable, and practically rules the world of underground crime?"

I finally managed to latch the necklace, feeling rather accomplished, and gave her an apologetic expression. "You know I can't answer that…"

"You don't have to. It's written all over your face. That is why you are going after him? Because the myth is true in some fashion and he is involved personally. So who did the monster murder…"

"Ariel!" I snapped, projected harsher than what was probably necessary, and composed myself from the urge to explain everything just to stop the disturbingly perceptive assumptions. She silenced herself instantly and stiffened, eyes darting to the floor for a brief hesitated moment. "Can we just _drop _the subject? You know as well as I do that I can't discuss any information pertaining to an active case to anyone not directly involved."

"But if your kidnapping had anything to do with _that particular_ myth, both of you are into something way over your heads. If the case doesn't kill you, than the stress will. It's a no-win situation."

"And I'm well aware of that. I know we can't win against someone like him, not without so many more casualties, but we can't sit on our hands and do nothing while a mass murderer is terrorizing the world."

"Even if it has the potential to ruin your life?"

A pregnant pause ensued, promoting the tension with its silence and awkward avoidance of eye contact as Ariel's words hung in the balance.

The fight against Rais only had two fathomable outcomes. He or Mick had to die or abandon their pursuits completely, and neither had the personal credibility to allow cowardliness. Rais had decades of a deadly reputation at risk. Mick had his sanity and all he cared for in the crosshairs. Neither could afford to call a truce, because neither would ever willingly adhere to their end of the deal.

I heaved a defeated sigh as I stood wearily, massaging aching temples whilst responding earnestly. "It's going to be the death of us, and I know that. But we don't have a choice. If we abandon the case then Mick will take it upon himself to solve it without us, and that will probably involve very illegal methods to gain the desired outcome. He doesn't care what happens to himself as long as he has his revenge in the end. I can't watch him destroy himself like that, so I'm doing this for him. For _us_."

Ariel crossed her arms over her chest once more. The sudden flash of a confident smirk, as if silently reciting a childish_ I-knew-it_, graced narrow-eyed features as she replied, "Whatever happened to the denial of never becoming an _us_ between you two?"

"I almost died in a car crash, drowned in the river, was drugged with some kind of heavy sedative for the past two days, and he saved my life. I've also got a killer headache so maybe my choice in words isn't up to par as usual." The excuse was inadequate, a futile attempt to disguise the slip of personal honesty, and I knew in a heartbeat that Ariel would not fall for the ruse.

"Would you be willing to cover for me with mom and dad? I just need to find him before he drinks himself to death."

"Fine. It's obvious that I'm not going to be able to convince you otherwise anyway." She answered with a sigh as she crossed the room to the door, resting her hand against the handle. "Only _if _you promise to focus on vacation rather than the case, at least until after the wedding."

If Lucas continued his escapades, the wedding would be ruined before it even started unless we stopped him. I _wanted _to promise that Rais, Jonah, and Lucas were not going to destroy the last year with my father and the most important day of my sister's life, but the lie was too preposterous.

* * *

"How'd you find me?"

Mick, unbeknownst to most, had a secret affinity for the sea. The familiarity of sand beneath his skin resurfaced memories of his home in Penarth, Wales. Uniquely beautiful seashells were the equivalent of the fossils and shells he collected throughout the first eight years of his life. Days he had spent on the beach with his family and friends with little worries outside of the usual boyish adventures. The melodic rhythm of crashing waves created their own soothing lullaby, luring troubled souls to solace like siren's song. Tranquil weather, warm with a pleasant breeze that carried the smell of seawater and the remnants of a fading spring rainstorm, was surely a stark contrast to the chilly spring air of Southern Wales.

Only a handful of people knew the effects the sea had on Mick. He perceived it as a vulnerability, a secret so personal that others were deemed too untrustworthy with the information. Those who lived with him during his youth, such as Jenna or Liam or his foster family, obviously knew about his days spent on the banks of the Thames River in London; Where Liam frequently wrote music with his guitar because he loved the acoustics the river held and all childhood troubles were chased away. However, those outside of his immediate family, such as Cooper or I, had to prove that we could have been trusted with the secret.

Mick had not discussed his love for the sea blatantly, but his actions provided the profile. He rarely ever spoke of his parents or his life in Penarth. The very few times he had were short and far between with the confidence that I would not recite the information to anyone else. I was certain I was the only one who knew the extent of the secret, although Cooper had probably pieced together the profile himself throughout the years of their friendship. He confided in me with the information just as he had done with so many other hidden personality quirks. But the acknowledgement of his affection for the sea was more intriguing than his love for science and classic literature.

"Call it intuition."

_Intuition, deductive reasoning, investigative prowess._

Narcissism was uncharacteristic. In truth, I had slowly excluded all bars within a ten-mile radius as well as a large portion of the nearest beach. Penelope worked her magic with security and traffic cameras and finally found him exiting the pier half an hour before I found him beneath it. Ariel offered her car and her aid in a manual pursuit, considering I didn't have my driver's license with me and I had no desire to tempt fate, while my mother and Gabrielle contacted local bars with a description of Mick.

_Intuition_ may have played a hand in locating him, but profiling and process of elimination were more to blame.

Beneath the pier, sunlight shaded by ample amounts of fading sea-weathered wood and the secluded ambiance was admittedly peaceful. The spacious sands had not been picked through or disturbed by tourists, fresh seashells scattered about from the earlier morning storm dappled the evident outlines of the sea as its waves drifted inwards in the approaching evening tide. Tones of people above the pier were drowned with every melodic crash of the sea against the shore.

He was found within the first two hours of our search. It was the sudden, and frankly repugnant, overpowering stench of scotch that drew me to a support post on the cusp of the water. Mick was slouched lazily against the pillar, his knee tattered jeans and ruffled tan tee dusted with sand in places, as well as what I assumed was a careless slop of scotch on the bottom right corner of the shirt. Bare feet were dug into the cool sand before him as he drew his knees upwards at the sight of me, trying in vain to correct his posture. The sandals were tossed to the opposite side of the post.

The amber colored bottle held like a lifeline to his chest, lightly glazed with sand from his unsteady fingertips wrapped around the neck, the label peeled away in strips, ceased my steps with a despondent groan. Given the state of his features, the unfocused glint in moistened, bloodshot, drunken browns and taunt haunted lines, as well as the chaotic stance of his hair out of pure subconscious nervous habit, I was too late to stop him from drinking himself into an utterly intoxicated state of mind.

He cracked one eye and lolled his head against the wood, an incredulous toothy grin spreading across his face as he welcomed me with an unprepared question. The wavering slur to his dejected bravado, contorting his Welsh-English accent in a manner that made understanding his words slightly difficult, was fought against as I responded with a forcefully soft comforting smile. Minutes passed between us, long and anxious as we held each other's gaze, and then he turned his eyes back to the sea and pulled another lengthy swig of scotch from the bottle. The liquid audibly sloshed in the bottle, which meant that it probably only had a few more sips before it was empty.

I folded my arms over my chest for a long second, then crossed the length of distance between us and snatched the bottle from his hands before he could comprehend its loss. It was tossed under-handed to the sands out of reach behind me, draining the last few sips into the absorbent sands. As I sank to the sands beside him, mindful of the gunshot wound in his left bicep, I rested against the pillar and drew my knees up to my chest, removing pressure from the painful pulse in my ankle.

"Ya hate me, don't ya." He grumbled, weaving his hand into his hair again.

"Sure, let's go with that. That's probably the only thing you're wasted mind can understand right now anyway." Perhaps the retort was harsher than intended, but the result was as expected.

He furrowed his brow and dropped his hand to his lap, appearing woefully confused by the words. "I'm not _that_ pissed."

The stench of hard-unpolished scotch rolling from his breath begged to differ.

"You most certainly are _that pissed_. Whatever happened to sobriety?"

The sniper dragged the tip of his tongue over his front teeth as he shook his head. "You make it sound so bloody _important_. I think I'm entitled to a drink every once in a while." His words were drastically slower than before, as if he found it a challenge to compile more than one sentence in a single minute.

"It's important to me. I thought that would mean something to you." I replied sincerely, catching his eyes with a disappointed pout to certify my point.

After the hell he went through in November, the breakdown and the near alcohol poisoning, I would have thought sobriety was one of the most important subjects of his life. He could have died during his last binge with alcohol, whether from the liquor itself or suicide. The possibility of death, in most, was a marvelous motivator towards a lifestyle change.

But he was drunk, undeniably wasted beyond reasonability, and therefore logic was not going to spark any kind of understanding from him. Impulses and emotions were always stripped raw during intoxication, and Mick was no different.

Mick diverted his eyes to the crashing waves once again, pinching the bridge of his nose with an exaggerated exhale. Shaky fingers dug into his eyes a moment later, so rough and desperate to clear the fog and retain control that I was actually afraid he would inadvertently blind himself. He mumbled something beneath his breath, probably in Welsh, and dipped his head to his chest. "I'm not gonna drown myself, darlin'"

I had doubts as to the validity of his statement. His previous suicide attempts, once shortly after his brother was deemed irreparably brain damaged and catatonic, as well as after the traumatic memories of his days of torture violently resurged to bring him to his knees, had always been intercepted before he managed to do any permanent damage. Admittance towards his past suicide attempts required psychological strength, and he had been quite adamant about the fact that he believed suicide to be cowardly. It was hypocritical given his records. Since he began living with me and trying to better himself, he seemed to recognize his past mistakes as an epiphany.

"Of course you're not. Suicide would be cowardly and you are definitely not a coward." I responded, fingering my necklace habitually while my opposite fingers found a miniature pointed twisted white shell in the sand between us. "I would like to know, however, why you thought you couldn't just talk to me. Why did you have to turn to liquor again? I thought staying sober was just as important to you as it is to me..."

"I'm not some bloody child." He interrupted harshly, glaring in my direction as he slammed the back of his head against the pole. The force drew a grimace from both of us, although I was certain his was more due to pain than sympathy, but he paid it no physical attention as he dug his fingers into the sands at his sides. "I don't _have_ to sit here and talk about my _feelings_. I won't either, so just drop it." The crass tone, slurred as it was, surprised me into speechlessness. Mick had a tenancy for violence and unfiltered, brutal honesty while intoxicated. He had always been composed when in my presence, even if he had to force himself to watch his tongue. He never spoke with such anger or hatred in his tone towards me, and therefore I didn't know how to respond immediately.

He wasn't furious at me, per say, and I understood that grief and liquor had stripped away his ability for any leniency. However, I couldn't dismiss the uncharacteristic sharpness as simply a repercussion of psychological trauma and unpolished liquor.

My confusion was evident. Remorse flashed in his eyes, his shoulders sagged in earnest defeat and he shifted to curl into himself as tightly as he possibly could whilst minding the aches in his limbs. Eyes traced another wave feet from our position. Sincerity forced its way through the haze clouding his judgment as he whispered a deluded apology. "That was cruel. It wasn't meant to be cruel. You don't deserve cruelty…"

I disrupted his senseless rambles before he inadvertently admitted something both of us would regret. "You're grieving the death of your parents again. I can't even begin to imagine the kind of anguish…"

The purpose of the statement, however provoking it may have seemed, was to lure raw emotion to the surface. He needed to realize that portraying grief was not shameful. No one expected him to be impervious in the face of mourning.

Mick pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes once more, stifling something akin to a sniffle with his wrist against his nose as he inhaled an unsteady breath. "You're right, ya can't imagine. I haven't even called Jenna yet. What the bloody hell am I supposed to tell her?"

"The truth to start with. They left to save both of you because they loved you."

He snorted in disbelief and shook his head adamantly. A scowl contorted his features as he stared unseeingly at the ocean and fussed with his fingers dropped into his lap. "They _abandoned _us because they were _cowards_." He seethed through grounded teeth. "I spent twenty years looking for their killer, for some kind of answer that would explain who killed them and why. Instead, they were very much alive for nearly fifteen years, right under my nose. _Fifteen goddamned years_, Gina."

"So you hate them for abandoning you and Jenna?"

His breath caught in his throat at the question, seemingly frozen by confliction. The struggle between hatred and loyalty, both emotions rooted from childhood fears, danced across weary features until he remembered to breathe again. "I…it's complicated…and I don't know…" He stuttered nervously, the slur in his tone clipping every word. "I just don't _understand_. If they loved us, why didn't they take us with them? How could they abandon us to the foster system? How could they sit on their hands, safe in their home country, while Jenna and I were fighting for our lives on the streets? How could they ruin our family just to save themselves? How could they leave me like that? What could I possibly tell Jenna?"

The myriad of childish questions had no answers. Marc and Katherine Rawson did what they believed was best for their children. No matter the explanation or excuse I could have given him, whether psychological assessments proven true by years of expertly profiling or sympathetic gesture to ease his torment, Mick wasn't going to believe a word without physical proof. The only proof available, the only source of solace, was a video Marc Rawson supposedly created on the eave of his death in 2005. Cooper had it in his possession in DC, but he did not trust sending it through the mailing system to reach us. The MI6 operative who brought the evidence with him from England assumed that Rais did not know about the video, and no one else had the heart to watch a dead man's last confessions meant solely for the eyes of his beloved children. Instead, Penelope was going to copy the disc into a computer format and send it via his email.

That took time, which clashed with his impatience.

Mick could be apathetic towards the world's problems, stubborn and impatient and horribly egotistical, but the concept of willing abandonment was incomprehensible. He did not know whether to hate or forgive his parents, how to talk about such a sensitive subject with his own sister, or how to compose himself while discussing the matter. The scotch was used as a catalyst, as a method of temporary control, but even that could not disguise the unrefined indecisiveness behind his words.

He would deny it vehemently, I was sure, yet the telltale signs of his suppressed emotions were quite evident in the most heartbreaking tone I had ever heard. The conflict between logical understanding and overwhelming childish hatred was slowly tearing his resolve into pieces, and all anyone could do was watch in horror.

Mick looked to me for answers I did not have; brilliantly emotional eyes so pleading, so lost and confused in the hell of recent life. Answers did not exist, not for this particular situation and certainly not from me. What experience did I have with such a psychologically torturous situation? My parents were alive, at least until my father passed away from his brain tumor in a year, and while my family and I had differing views of the world, we were still available for comfort if needed. Jenna and the O'Connell family were in another country entirely, hundreds of miles across the Atlantic, so all Mick had to rely on for comfort was a bottle of scotch in hidden solitude and the most trusted person in his life. I could never fully fathom a proper response, at least not one that would carry any weight.

"I don't know what to do, or what I should think. I just know that I _want _to hate them for abandoning me like cowards, but I don't know how." Previous confessions paled against those two defeated and desperate sentences. His fingers tore into his eyes, coming away slightly wet as he wiped them against his shirt frantically. The excuse of sand in his eyes was undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue. However, I knew he was fighting with every ounce of control to contain himself, for the sake of his pride more than anything else.

The last event to bring him uncharacteristically close to tears was the six months of supposed death for Jenna, but he had holed himself away as much as psychically possible so the world could not see. Mick despised outward portrayals of sympathy. The lingering grief was infectious, however, and therefore sympathy was indisputable.

I fell into a fitful state of silenced sympathy as he spoke. Noticing his every movement through the beginnings of dampened eyes, counting the number of times his hands wove into his hair or scrubbed brutally against his face, and found it impossible to dismiss the dense bulge of sorrow that had stitched itself into my chest at the broken sight of him. I imagined the sympathy wallowing in my chest was only a minute fraction of the actual suffocating sorrow wrapped around his heart.

"Lucas told you everything, didn't he?" I questioned barely above a whisper,

Lucas had all but vowed to ruin our vacation. His motives were unclear, but we had profiled that he wanted to separate Mick from the rest of his teammates. With Jonah hunting for him and Surkov, in two different states nonetheless, he needed a plan to survive. Somehow that plan involved Mick. He was either going to kill Mick to end Rais's mind games, which would have probably resulted in death for himself but subdued Rais's objectives for quite some time, or he wanted support.

Two men, related, incredibly intelligent and skilled with the heightened instincts to survive by whatever means available, would have certainly given Jonah a challenge. Perhaps if Lucas was willing to keep Mick alive, they could have been able to cripple Rais with our help.

There was always the disturbing possibility that Lucas gave Mick the information about his parents as a form of psychological leverage. If he wanted Mick to work in his favor without the restrictions of government agencies such as the FBI, he would have needed to prove that he could have actually provided significant answers. He would have needed to turn Mick against those he trusted, those who could have changed his rogue decision.

In other words, Lucas planted the seed of doubt and sorrow in Mick's head, and just waited for the desired outcome.

Mick did not understand the relevance to the question. Haunted dark eyes stared at me in blatant hesitation, as if he was indecisive about a truthful response, and I knew in an instant that he was withholding information again. Something happened while he was held captive by Lucas, something spoken or offered, but he simply was not going to admit to anything willingly. Like the months of withheld details pertaining to the Rais case, whatever occurred, in his humble opinion, was too dangerous to involve me.

He was _protecting _me, even when it was not necessary.

Mick finally glanced at the ocean one last time as he sighed in submission. He shifted his position to cross his legs, wincing at the painful tug of sore muscles, and sat adjacent to me. His entire right side braced against the wood. The swift hardened modification in his emotional features suggested that he was preparing the lie, or partial truth, and the close proximity exaggerate his objective.

The proximity between us was verging on professionally inappropriate. I could see every bruise left by Seth that had yet to fully set around his right cheek and eye, the paleness of his skin accenting the reddened eyes and the rigid lines pronounced as he swallowed thickly. He smelled of unpolished scotch and sand with the slightest hint of salt water and gunpowder, as if the latter infused into his clothing with age. It was a typical association with Mick, gunpowder and sinful masculinity, and the familiarity was not lost on me.

"And you want to know the exact conversation?" He replied in a whisper, spacing his pronunciations of every word to vainly obscure the slur. "You think he's done something to me? That he's told me about them to get inside my head?"

"I worry that he plans to use you to his advantage. Either to defend against Jonah or end this game Rais is playing with you. Whichever may be true, it means that Lucas manipulated you…"

"He tried, but I know the truth." Mick interrupted coyly, the remnants of an arrogant smirk lifting his lips. "I know that he wants to use me against Rais. He's figured out that Rais wants nothing more than to understand how my father got so damned close to ruining his organization in just a few short years. It's bothered him all these years, not knowing how he was almost defeated. Then I came along in Iraq and stirred the fire without realizing it. Now he's interested in me because I'm supposedly the spitting image of my father. Supposedly, with Lucas on our side, we could finally end this war."

"So he offered a deal. He wants to work with us to stop Rais and Jonah?"

Mick hesitated again, for several more moments than before, and finally shrugged. "Perhaps. It's all a bit hazy, to be honest. We'll find out on the twelfth though, because that's the day he runs out of time and resources to continue fighting against Jonah."

Ariel's wedding was scheduled on the twelfth, a day after Mick's twenty ninth birthday. The most important day of her life, a critical platform for our family, was going to be ruined by Lucas's plans. Once Jonah realized that Lucas was virtually defenseless, he would rally all of his resources in a single deadly assault. If Lucas truly wanted our help in saving himself, and he was pushed into a corner with no escape, he would go to any lengths to ensure his survival. Which included luring Jonah's assault into the wedding, just to convince Mick that he was not bluffing.

We had until the twelfth of April to find and apprehend Jonah, mend the threadbare relationship with my family, ensure that Mick didn't slip back into his previous self-destructive behavior, locate and capture Lucas, and rescue Sebastian Flores. If any of those objectives failed, there was no stopping Rais without more carnage in his wake.

* * *

Note- Hello people! I'm back! It's been too long, and I apologize for that. Life has been horribly busy over the past month and writers block set a few weeks ago as a result. I wrote this chapter at least a dozen times before I finally managed to complete it.  
So, this chapter takes place two days after Lucas captured Gina and Mick. The repercussions, especially in the eyes of family and teammates, are critical to the storyline. It's fairly self explanatory, so I won't bore you with reciting the crucial points. I will say that Mick's reaction to everything was difficult to write because it was very depressing. I spent days writing the reaction in several different formats, and this was the best I could portray. Hopefully you enjoy it.  
I think that covers things for now. Reviews are always loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, subscribed, and stayed with my writing throughout the long update periods. Your support is always loved.


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